When I’m older, I shall wear my restlessness as you wear a sunflower pinned to your coat. It will feed on the warmth of my contracting purple heart. Its head hung, it will sway, snoring gently. It will bide its time; its seeds will stir and mutter in their sleep, till white-hot ripeness builds up inside them, brewing, till it penetrates them, fills them to the brim, and explodes. My sunflower won’t bloom, it will burst in a supernova of heat, of scorched flower flesh, and smoke.