Bleeding and beauty are equivalents—

Whether you’d like to admit it or not.

Every scraped knee, every paper slice,

Every wrist kissed by silence—

You bleed.

You bleed red.

Dark red.

Plain red.

Just red.

And the way it trickles down,

Soft and slow, like the ink of a sorrowful poem—

It’s almost… beautiful.

Because blood tells a story.

It speaks in drops and stains,

Of how you were hurt,

And how deep it went.

But eventually, the bleeding stops.

The red dries,

Crumbles.

You wash it away,

Pretend it never happened—

But you’re left with a scar.

And that scar,

It might fade into skin,

Or linger like a whispered name.

But either way—

It’s a mark.

A memory.

Proof.

Etched inside and upon you.

A quiet truth,

A silent scream,

A badge that says: “I survived.”

And that—

That is beauty.

This is how bleeding

Becomes art.