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.

after.

the dawn enters its liminal state, making way for the brightening day. she closes her journal and squints at the rising sunlight winking at her in the waves, beckoning to be conversed with in the last remnants of

the morning.

walking back, she silently promises the shore of her return. the weathered wood is firm beneath her feet, the soft creak of the floorboards the only indication of her presence. at the sight, she

gazes fondly.

for the now risen figure smiles a knowing smile from behind his coffee, and approaches, the scent of pine and lavender enveloping her, settling her mind, and for the second moment that morning, a smile forms upon her lips.