These thorns surge deep
Into her skin
Evicting blood by the drop
And taunting her sanity
Every excuse is a twist
Every expense paid an apology
every promise eases the sting
All the while, beneath these band aid offerings,
the thorn remains in the wound.
It is turning down the covers
and will soon invite infection.
Every fundamental question that goes unanswered,
wiggles the thorn further in.
“Do you love me?”
“Are we doing life together?”
“Are you holding on until you find something better?
Until you have the courage to leave?”
Her tears are becoming lazy
Sure, they show up in numbers when summoned
But their faithfulness in falling,
is the work of gravity
Crying no longer leads to lightness
And after, there is still no clarity
her tears leave her
Exposed and salty
just like he does
after a petty conversation.
All this for a famished thing called hope-
Which is no longer a belief in winning
But a refusal to lose
Because she has invested so much time,
and has used pride to cover the interest
She needs for the rose to finally bloom for her
And her alone, for once.
She needs the rose to run its velvet petals over her incisions
and soothe the injustices of its unfaithfulness
She needs the rose to justify how long she clutched its thorns.
© Abena Amoako-Green 2016