Literature
Thorns, Thistle and Bramble
It’s not that I don’t care, and I know it’s not that you don’t either. We’re both just lost: busy in our minds and stuck in the thorn bushes. I’ve taken my cutters and trimmed the weeds away, but you let them grow back like gravity pulls me down. And now, I’m overgrown and my skin is red and raw; these thorns are hugging tighter than before.
But I smile. I close my eyes and smile, squeezing my lids shut, holding back every tear I can.
“I’m sorry,” you say, as I snip the green stems growing around your face. “You’re a great friend.”
I reach for you, but my skin tea