Roses have thier thorns

Warning: This is a rant poem, it might contain messages hinting to abuse.

I thought I was safe touching the rose, but it had thorns. How was I supposed to know? The hitting, the yelling, the beating, the pain, the sorrow, all led to a scar left by her thorn. The rose was two faced, hateful, and betrayed my heart, so I tossed it and left it to wither in the dark. I went among the other flowers, dancing in thier sight. I now live happier among those flowers, dancing in thier soft grass and hugging their stems. The rose may be beautiful, but all Roses have thier thorns.