Pricks

The pricks are nothing to me
They sting, sure, every now and then
But it is their smell that makes me come for more
I love it, and need it as much as the air I breathe

The pricks are nothing to me

They draw blood, I know
But it’s their softness that I remember
When I tenderly stroke the petals

The pricks are nothing to me

Their pain is easily swallowed
Lost behind the brightness of color
The scars are forgotten before they’re received

The pricks are nothing to me

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