They grew out of my arms every day.

Flowers.

They were all beautiful, but no matter how much I tried to produce different ones,

They all came out the same -

Red roses.

Red roses symbolize love and romance.

Well, I was a hopeless romantic who wanted to fall in love over and over and over again.

My flowers were mine.

Nobody was allowed to see them.

Even under the 95 degree sun, I kept them hidden under long sleeves.

You see, they would kill them.

These flowers,

They were addicting,

Like heroin.

Even their roots ran red down my arm.

But I never wanted them to go away.

I had become my own private garden.

Day by day,

The flowers stopped growing.

I didn't have the time to tend to them anymore -

I knew it was my fault.

I wanted them back so badly.

I tried so hard.

I remember the day I died.

The last thing I saw was a bouquet of red roses sprouting from my wrist.