Into the purple smoke
she tossed her painful memories
wounds that oozed and refused to heal
stripping each scar from her body
and in turn destroying the scent
of lemon and honey
her mother’s blanket that kept her warm
on those harsh winter nights;
those bygone things and people
were no longer enough
RED GLADIOLA 
This poem made me fill a weird coldness in my fingers. Perhaps because I resonated with it, I refused to read it again. But it’s so beautiful.
Thank you! I’m glad it left such a strong impression.