Destruction isn’t beautiful,
but I want it to be,
because I don’t want to be ugly.
I need it to be beautiful,
because it’s all I see.
I don’t want to be a warning sign,
or a lesson to be learned.
I don’t want to be inspirational,
or beautiful in my tragedy.
But if I have to be something,
I want to be beautiful.
But then I guess that’s what I’ve always wanted.
Before, during, after.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.
And I never know what kind I want to be.
So much beauty that I can’t pin down.
And maybe a part of me revels in my ugly,
loves my ugly.
Maybe I want to be harsh on the eyes,
or maybe just painfully beautiful instead.
And what if I see beauty where others don’t?
Is it still beautiful,
or do I need a new prescription?
And when I bleed red and cry for its beauty,
it’s both a blessing and a curse that I see what others don’t.
There are things that end,
and then there’s this.