My little faulty car bomb,
I shouldn't love what will explode
when we have no safe word
to douse our throats like fuses.

When we wear civilians
like tuxedos, it's time
to salvage the girders
our touch has become.

Melt the scrap metal;
make a crucifix that repels
flying dictionaries
out of our palms.

I've sutured "home"
into my forearms,
broke the deadbolt,
left you a crowbar.