YOU

Sometimes you're just too much and I wish we'd never met.
Sometimes I think I'd be
better off alone.
Sometimes the things you say
are broken glass and bramble thornes.
Sometimes the things you say
push me from behind, and then I fall
off my wall,
graze my knees,
bruise my mind
and feel dead inside.

Then you pick me up,
and make a balm to soothe the bruise and heal the graze.
The broken glass is swept away,
petals grow where thornes had been;
love pours in,
and I'm alive again.