The curse of ugly pain.
The pain, a sickly moldy green.
A consuming envy,
shameful distaste for those who have it worse.
Pain that could have been pink.
The pink of a soft pastel gown.
Tattered and torn by evil hands.
Glitter band-aids on pink fleshy wounds.
Pain that could have been red.
The red of screaming terror.
Forever crimson scars.
Vibrant past, unmistakable.
Green pain is mundane.
It blends into the grass and trees.
It rots you from the inside.
A perfect gourd, left on the patio,
Thrown out when it starts to smell.
Apr 1, 2025
Apr 1, 2025 at 4:26 AM UTC
The curse of ugly pain.
The pain, a sickly moldy green.
A consuming envy,
shameful distaste for those who have it worse.
Pain that could have been pink.
The pink of a soft pastel gown.
Tattered and torn by evil hands.
Glitter band-aids on pink fleshy wounds.
Pain that could have been red.
The red of screaming terror.
Forever crimson scars.
Vibrant past, unmistakable.
Green pain is mundane.
It blends into the grass and trees.
It rots you from the inside.
A perfect gourd, left on the patio,
Thrown out when it starts to smell.
Because of trauma being stigmatized, it can be easy to think that your pain needs to be something different in order to be accepted. This leads to craving an aesthetic kind of struggle that doesn't truly exist. It wouldn't matter if you were prettier, louder, more hurt. There will always be people who don't understand you. It is important to heal yourself and not your image.
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