Scars to your beauty

What magnitude of pain can hurt? What is the measuring capacity of the human heart to bear, to accumulate in its precipice before it finally seeks redemption, before it concludes to itself no more? How ironic and disbarring it is to moan about the loss of someone after their demise after they bury themselves on the deathbed or even more unbearing when they bury themselves in their essence. If they bury themselves in their breaths, they break their souls, they pierce their hearts and shed every ounce of their aching identity that constitutes their trace. 

I wish we could see the nakedness of the soul, the aching trenches of the starlit soul dying in its breath for one last look, one previous trace of love, one last call not to kill their spirit and become unrecognizable. 

Become someone no one thought they could be