I am the salty sweat of the sun’s tears
I am the droplets of the thorns plucked
I am the blood of a rose taken and cut

I am the bitterness that frost intended
I am the coldness that you’ve accepted
I am the blackness to which once you invited

I am the crux on your shoulders
I am the nagging at your sleeves
I will not leave you until, I have made you, succeed