lest they crack like gunpowder and lodge into my love’s sinus cavity and stay there growing like poison ivy, tendrils creeping into her nose and throat and eyes and frontal lobe that itch and swell into blisters that burn, that whisper “he’s never loved you” and “this is too uncomfortable” and “I need calamine slathered over my ears and tongue” and “never touch me,” growing without a chance for weed killer, never blooming in a ball of light, just smothering.