It’s probably something silly.
I probably won’t remember it
Once it floats like a twig down the river.
The river of tears that she cries
When I lose my temper.
When I shout that she’s lazy,
Or worthless, ugly, good for nothing.
Or when I threaten to leave
Because I know she’ll beg me to stay.
When I ignore her, or blame her
For things that might be my fault
Because it makes me feel better about myself.
Why do I do this?
If I really love her the way I claim,
If my love is really like a flower
Poking through the hard crust of snow
As Spring drapes her flowing golden locks
Across the dying embers of Winter,
Then why does my love seem
More like the thorn than the rose?