Scarlet poppies in my hand like blooming blood crawling up my throat out into my palm to give to you because what could I give other than my own flesh my own blood carved from my heart to remind you that there is no part of me that I would be unwilling to give as I stand here warm drips melting what once was pristine snow as I stand here willing to bleed out for you. I know it's not healthy. But what can I do? As I hand you a bouquet made from my blood, love, and desperation, it stains you and that heals me.