Flower Crown

Emily Boehm

There are flowers in her wrists,
entwined in her hair.
Blooming from her lungs, 
bleeding from her lips,
they 
                drip 
                                down.
Those bloody petals 
and fleshy thorns.

She bears them with pride,
though her insides are riddled
with scars, slowly
yet surely drowning
her.

There are flowers in her eyes, 
white like daisies
but they’re not.
They seep down her cheeks,
black stems spotted
with color. She smiles, 
and the red petals
fall.

Never did she cry,
until you died,
and tears fell from
those dandelion eyes.