There’s a misconception in this world about the horrible things that haunt it.
           War turns from hate and blood and death, from broken bones sticking from your skin like thorns and mourning beyond anything to a dance. It is a delicate call, some might say, learning the steps along the way as you and your partner fight for the lead in a waltz. The decomposition is forgotten as every party grabs each other by the waist and pulls them into a messy but romantic sway to the music of gunshots and screams.
           Hate turns from imagining the wrap of your hands around another’s throat and squeezing until you wish you could hear the snap of bone beneath your fingers to something so close to love it just turned sour, sweet, and sorrowful.
           Revenge becomes a mindset, a way to enact vengeance on others for out of pocket fights or cries, when in reality it is just cold hard pettiness. There is not much drama left in the living so they find to create it themselves.
           The most horrid and vile things about this selfish world are twisted into the most romantic things, war as a dance, hate as love, revenge as vengeance.
           Chaos as beauty.
           There is no beauty in chaos, how could there be. Chaos is too bright, too loud, too colorful, too proud. Chaos holds the world in the palm of its hands, aware that it is a living thing, and then it squeezes until all of the Earth’s blue blood of oceans and mud and grass and love drips through its hands into the oblivion of space.
           Chaos is far from beauty just as war is far from a dance, hate from love, revenge from vengeance. Chaos embodies war in its darkest moments, it caresses the cheek of revenge and shrieks in its ear for it to do anything but sit still and realize just who is in the wrong. Chaos is not the origin of hate, but its end. Chaos grows every hateful emotion like it was a weed in the midst of a garden, chaos nurtures the plants of hate and fear and death until they are rotting infectious, spread throughout the garden like a honey tipped lie. 
           Chaos is red, bright like a light shown through the tip of your finger. Chaos is blue like the sky in the mornings, far too bright for waking eyes. Chaos is green like venom, it’s violet like a bruise, it is brown and indigo and pink and white. Chaos is everything all at once, it claws at your throat with its sunlight dipped hands and it pulls the stones that sit peacefully in your stomach up to your throat. It blinds your eyes like you were never really meant to see color and it promises that you never will see it again. It takes those claw-tipped hands of theirs and peels open your eyelids, forcing you to look into the world where too much is happening. It peels your hands from your ears and forces you to listen to its song as it snakes into the air like nails on a chalkboard or screams of the unrested dead. Chaos makes you run your fingers across broken glass and knives and forces you to swallow all the words you wish you never said, all the words that crawled throughout your brain like maggots on a decomposing body.
           Unfair, some might call it, too harsh, they might say. Is there no beauty in the ugly? Of course there is, just not to you. Some see the worst sides of things and strive to catch them. They smile as they see bodies drop one by one, they laugh against the ever echoing screeching wave of sounds never heard before all at once, they take those sunlight tipped claws of chaos and they willingly bring them to their own eyes in a wish that they might never see colors again.
           There is no beauty in chaos. Even behind tinted glass and muffled sound, there can be no beauty in something like that. Because chaos is smoke in your mouth, the sting of it against your eyes and lungs and throat. It pulls at the bones inside you, making you uncomfortable in your own body which you call your home. It pulls at your muscles and bites at your soft sensitive skin with sharpened teeth that shine like all colors of the world even as they are coated in your blood.
           Surely there was a start to the chaos, something that brought it to life, perhaps someone who invited it willingly into their peaceful life, its colors and lights and sounds deceiving them when it was ever so clear what it was. While there was a start, there will be no end to chaos, and never will it be beautiful in our world. How could it be beautiful with its rancid smell like formaldehyde and decomposing bodies in the humid summer heat. Whatever beauty chaos might have once had is replaced with the feel of knives and glass, with the emotions of guilt and sadness and pain and hate running through your veins, too fast for you to register what they are. Chaos is loud, it breaks your eardrums and coaxes blood from your nose and ears and mouth with the harsh sharp vibrations and screams of its very existence. Chaos tastes like nothing but the tang of your own coppery blood on your own tongue.
           War is no dance, revenge no act of vengeance, and hate is no form of love.
           Chaos could never be beauty.