The End.

It was all so perfect once,

I can barely remember it now.

Apparently it makes me stronger, 

“Disaster grows character”

But the only thing I see sprouting are weeds.

And not even the pretty ones—no dandelions, 

Just regular old grass.

It’s all so gut-punching and earth-shattering,

But for character? 

If that’s all I wanted, I would have done something simpler.

Having my entire world crumble around me is for more than just character. 

It’s for my suffering, 

My grief, and my pain.

My river of tears and my razor-shaped scars.

My broken heart and my bruised arms.

My permanent frown, seared into my face, and my burnt fingertips.

Now I spend my time feeling sorry for myself, thinking the world has suddenly gone ablaze because of that grief. 

What I didn’t realize is that the world has spent years sweeping up ashes

And my sadness was the last flake of soot.