Sweet Agonizing Thorns

You were a rose,
with thorns so sharp,
and I tried to hold on.

Oh how I tried
as my hand dripped
blood from where you cut me
every time I lost my grip.

And every time,
my grip got stronger
until I crushed the very thing
I wanted to preserve.

I wonder,
Does a rose know it has thorns?
Does it secretly like the taste
of blood from a pricked finger?
Oh how you do love to hurt me.

Bask in the glory
of defeated enemies.
Is that what I have become?