Thistles

Love is not a rose

It is a thistle

With no place

Safe to touch,

Without being

Pricked,

Rising stiff

In the sun

With a blood flush

To its head

Vibrant, shaken

In the brisk wind

Until it drips with dew

The ache shaped

With each shake

And I shake, too,

Aching to make

You take it all

Inside of you,

Each prick

Leaving bits

Of blood on your lips

For you to lick

And my lips on your lips

So I lick each drip, too,

No rose tasting nearly

As sweet