It hurt to look at her

It hurt to look at her. She was beautiful in the way death is.

Beautiful in the way we romanticize pain.

Her eyes were transparent you could see straight into her soul.

Her eyes seem to spill out all her truths. 

Her pale skin and bruised knees seem to belong to someone like her.

Despair hung about her clinging to her with desperation.

It hurt to look at her.

Watching her was like watching a flower wilt.

Painful because you knew it was once filled with beauty and promise.

You can picture it swaying in the wind. Beauty& light radiating off of it.

For a moment a feeling of peace washes over you.

For a moment you are untouched.

Now you see it fading, crumbling.

It hurt to look at her.

Because you are aware that once it fades it will be forgotten.

All you can do is watch it decay.

Even then it’s beautiful maybe more than ever.

As death wraps itself around her in that moment she is a sight to be seen.

Blood runs down her pale skin & tears run down her tired eyes.

Her bruises seem to serve a redeeming quality to death. 

You could see her trying to cling on to life. 

Cling to the hope. 

Then she realized life like most things that sparkle and glimmer of hope.

It was an utter complete waste of time.

You could see her give in.  

You could hear her whisper “There is a better world there has to be.”

Death had come for her as it comes for everyone.

In death even the most broken can find peace & to me that is a sight to be seen

That is a rare type of beauty.