There’s a bomb
In my pocket
In my brain
In my locket

It’s made
Of citron and pepper
To those who don’t ache
It might just hurt

Residues in her face
I see it burn
I see it grimace
I see disdain

Sometimes people like burning
Maybe they own
some bombs of their own
They can’t help but carry

Sometimes people hate citric
Maybe they haven’t ever
Ticked
They’re so used to sweet

But with you I see them burn
They don’t care to control
You don’t care
to dodge

Maybe there are antibodies
And you don’t feel the sting
When you just happen
To cry acid