The Suicide Garden Part VIII: Blood

She lay in the snow, whistling. She gave that up soon, though.
She knew she would die before he found her. It was just a little thought she had. Her supply of cigarettes was gone now, and she had nothing to keep her going.
She thought of the poppies she’d collected every time and placed in miniature lakes, swimming across the apartment on the waves caused by her movements. They were such a beautiful red, almost like a smile, curving in the grimace of an unshared secret.
Poppies on the water, beaching themselves behind the hidden screen of the floating world, tangled in the images of the jungle growing along the apartment.
I wonder who’s going to water the plants now.