Touch-me-not

I am the touch-me-not.
Each pore of my skin
Births a new flower
in just the areas
Your fingers run.
The moment you take back
the swellings of love
I wilt.
I droop.
I die.
The garden shears
are brought out.
In contact with metal,
I shiver.
Much the same way
I shiver
when your hands
Sow and till on the field
of my skin.
And nothing can be done.
I can’t unfold myself.
So I cut off the once beautiful—
Now simply dead flowers.
Remaining only is the blood
of love
Running into a well
in just the spots
You had touched me.

- Why touch-me-nots fold