A symposium for gifting fresh flowers 

That morning I 

plastered my face with blush to 

match the ladybug shells that churned itself 

into butter for trees. 

That morning I picked using my half

bitten nails into the veins of hydrangeas and 

lilies and felt the meat of my finger dig 

through the insect chewed leaves that

left gaping holes — blemishes that 

welcomed its death for a hug and smiles

a few degrees warmer 

than strangers’ greetings.

That morning I breathed air onto petals filtered

through dreams from a twelve hour 

sleep, an exhale of mourning 

the loss of a pretty trip into the gardens 

too perfect for a 19 year old trying to 

figure out the balance between 

pleasing you and what it is like to be at ease.

I made a bouquet of flowers for free.

I made a bouquet of yellow and blues 

and tied it rashly with a rubber band that

left a mark into my half-awaken hair, still 

knotted from its performance piece in the 

bedroom for no one to see.

I made a bouquet of flowers not 

because I didn’t have the gut to spend lunch money

for an unprompted gift—not because the doors of shops

haven’t flipped its sign to cater another round of  

needs. I made a bouquet of flowers painfully,

so you know I watched you dance in Domino Park 

and cried knowing you scratched your knee.