we romanticize
pain
as if it's beautiful and mysterious.
but when you're laying
on the ground at 3 am,
tears making scarred tracks on their descent,
throat burning with barely concealed screams,
and hands clawing at your heart
trying to rip it out of your chest
because
anything,
anything,
anything would be better than
the deep sorrow
that has nestled its way into the deepest parts of you—
you do not feel beautiful.
you must pick yourself
off the ground
because someone has broken you.
it is not beautiful to be
broken.


but then someday your
heart no longer feels heavy,
and you sprout wings where scars
once lived,
and suddenly all of the broken
shards of your heart
create a kaleidoscope of color.
and a smile will grace
your lips.


pain is not beautiful,
no,
but happiness after pain—
that is beauty.