Today I drew a feeling.

It’s what it feels like to lose yourself by becoming beautiful.

At first, beauty was a way to survive.

Something to grow instead of falling apart.

But eventually, it became the only thing left.

The face is empty because the self was traded away—slowly, carefully—for something pleasing. Something quiet. Something safe to look at.

The flowers bloom because that’s what was asked of them.

Even if it meant growing from cracks.

Even if it meant losing everything else.

There’s beauty here.

But there’s no one left inside it.