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?