The speaker admits they've become bad at reading girls, and the poem unfolds as a kind of confession. They rush toward anyone who smiles at them, arms wide open, and give themselves over completely, bowing and curling up at the feet of whoever has caught their attention. The language of worship makes the devotion feel extreme, almost humiliating. Then it takes a blunt turn: the speaker would rather be worshipping "just below the belt," which admits that the longing is physical as well as romantic, and a little embarrassed about it.
The mood is self-deprecating and tangled up in guilt. The speaker believes the gods have cursed them and adds, "i probably deserve it." The closing image is the most striking. The heart "snakes around my body like a vine," so the speaker feels that their own feelings are something tangled and prickly, which fits the title's thorns. Holding them can't be painless: "without destroying something." The poem ends feeling both lonely and wary of its own capacity to hurt.