There's a point in our lives

where it seems our pain

is made of butterflies.

They flutter by from time to time

and whisper tragic lullabies

because beauty is pain.

Misery is glorious.

Their wings drip blue

and their bodies black.

If you could catch one in your hands

you would begin to cry

for it is so lovely, and it is so sad.

These are not butterflies surrounding you

these are demons

these are dangerous.

Our pain is made of monsters. 

Pain is not beautiful.