A path of thorny roses
carved itself unto my skin.
I see her struggle,
her thirst and
desire for sunlight.

A petal falls
and blood trickles down my leg.

She fears that she will wither
before she opens up to bloom.

I gently caress the petal of the rose and whisper
is my pain of no concern to you?
My blood will not quench your thirst for sunlight.

Yet despite that she's nestling deeper
thorns buried
and aching
out of some form of misplaced necessity and desperation.

A desire to live, a desire to grow, a desire to blossom.

By the roots, I rip her out.

I am no means for her survival.
Nor am I afraid of pain.