The thing about pain is it’s never beautiful. You find yourself wallowing in a puddle of bitterness. So, you don’t
repulse the next time you sip that sugarless coffee. Or when you drag that unfiltered hand-rolled cigar.
The unsavoury doesn’t concern
you anymore. Because it runs in
your veins like blood.
You don’t cry nostalgically for happiness, because you have never been to its place. You crinkle like a paper
in a fist and cry quietly, but not for yourself; for the blue sky, so breathtaking yet sad, like poetry.
You drink poison hoping to die, but instead, it finds an abode inside you. There’s a flower in your garden that bleeds green; it pricks you and your red turns everything into yellow. You turn to art, thinking, it’ll rescue you from your malady. And that’s when you realise; art isn’t going to heal your scars, it’ll just make them more presentable.