She was afraid of what that she had never felt. What she experienced before caused insurmountable pain. She met love and it seemed to be all that she wanted, yet, she did not trust it.  

She wanted to take her time. She fell back and in doing so, she hurt it. She made it feel worthless with her words. 

She was conscious free. Free even, from feeling bothered by it. 

But it didn't go anywhere. It stayed right there. Until she finally saw that it was true. She realized that it was what she needed, what she truly desired, and she decided to open her heart. 

But it was too late. Love closed his. He bottled his feelings and poured them out on to a barren field. 

She knew it was over. 

It was her fault. 

It hurts. It does. 

The desolate cries of one who is ungrateful. Preaching about being content yet knows nothing about it. 

An honest mean loser.

Who doesn't deserve love. 

She isn't a rose. 

There is no growth. 

Pinching, prickle. Trickle of blood.

No. One. Will. Ever. Love. Her. Because she doesn't let love in. 

It's her fault.

She hurts in a numb way. No feelings last long enough to penetrate. There's no heart. No nothing. No nothing. Nothing. 

She is defensive. 

Because thorns were created to cut in order to protect.