itis

If my sinuses were pumpkin seeds, I’d burn them. I’d scorch and scorn them. I’d stomp on them and shame them. I’d make them go away. One by one while watching their other seedling friends, I’d torture and turn them. I’d poke and prick them. I’d make them bleed.

Instead the sinuses of mine have done a turnabout. They’ve turned into internal blades. From sinuses to knives, they slowly made their change and slowly make their turn. They turn and turn and only for a burn.

And if my sinuses were pumpkin seeds, I’d leave them out to ruin.