This is a love letter to myself, but I'm hoping that if I do it well, it will also be to everything. There is a flower that has bloomed inside my chest. It is not blooming; it has bloomed. It is beautiful and colorful and wide and has so many layers of petals that you can run your fingertips across them forever and each rim will still offer you something entirely new. Like all things, it has a heart in the middle. I did not bloom this flower. It bloomed itself. I was just the garden.