It’s a lie that to create something beautiful, some part in you has to be broken. But I don’t know that. Because I have a twisted perception of what beauty is.
That’s easier, that’s smaller, and sadness fits. It fills my heart up from the inside instead of existing around it the way my happiness does. It’s small enough for me to hold its definition in my hands even though I don’t know what it is.
(I just finished reading Love Letters to the Dead by Ava Dellaira and it was small but quite deep and I fell down)