For you
I would love to be a mooring post,
the steady mast you hold fast to
when you feel the world is trying to scrape you off its back
but lately,
I am the wayward sea.
I can't help but to buck like a wild thing whose manners have come  undone
and whose side is perforated with thorns.
I am sorry for the way I'm behaving,
but the thorns, they hurt,
and you
you put them there.
I'm sorry I've drenched your clothes,
ruined your finery,
and upset your stomach
but when you took on a girl who runs deep as I do
the waters can't always sit still