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.
