Beauty.

They were kind words. Careful words. Healing words. Prophetic words. Powerful words.

"Beauty."

I asked her. How to hurt, how to heal. How to come out of the storm, and find hope, peace. How to grab the right balms, the ailments, the oitments for my wound.

"Beauty."

She replied with simple, slow thought.

There were many I expected. The lies lingering truth preached with drugs, with new idols, with false repair. There were things that portrayed a fast, frantic ease: boys, anger, with-hold.

But her response was different.

"Beauty."

Heal the hurt with beauty.

Gather it in the gardens. Fill in in spaces with flowers. Cover with with oil through music, through baths, through soil.

"Beauty."

Let beauty soothe the space. Let beauty fill the space. Let beauty be the space.

Let beauty be.