Princess of Scorn and Thorns

Woman with a Blue Hat, Matisse

I buckle at the knees under the moral weight of my love, not as quietly as I wish to. I try to love him well, and pure, and ethically, but selfishness lines the walls of my gut and I have not yet managed to shed it. When he huffs, I sway, I do not love well. When the furrows between his brows grow rough, I falter, I do not love purely. When I cannot feel him strong by my side, I weaken, I do not love ethically. I grow my thorns, adorn myself with them like a royal cloak on a baser subject, as if he didn’t already know they are soft to the touch. I hope he always remembers they soften to his touch; he has tamed me, like the flower tamed the prince on that lonely star. I, having buckled, await him to kiss my clawed hand in order to rise again, sweet. He deserves more kindness than my high-towered heart has been able to afford on windy days.

14.4.22