you are but a garden full of thorns

He’s well-aware of the fact that you are but poisonous thorns, yet he still chooses to listen to you. He always does. His throat and his ears are almost at an unbearable tint of red, a memoir of pain caused by the torrid and scorching cadence of your voice. He doesn’t mind it, instead he tells you how gritting together fanged teeth must’ve been so rigid and painful.It is not fair to show the person you love only the flower and not its thorns. In his case, he chooses to look at the thorns only.