Thorn

It's just a little pain,

small reminder

(guilty conscience)

not quite sin,

not quite love,

not quite anything

told in books.

Unreal.

Try to look too closely

and it might disappear,

always to return

(nothing ever goes away)

almost true

stuck like glue,

stuck to you

and me.

Pluck it out:
an easy wish to make,

harder to do,
because this thorn that

pricks my memory,

stabs my veins,

and lives under my skin,

I also cherish

to my core.

These slivers of attachment
are not the enemy;

the nemesis lies within
my fickle heart.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2