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

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