essence
theeflowerchild

Sakura was beautiful, in a tragic sort-of way.

She was strange, nobody could deny that—she didn't quite match, like somewhere along the line of her creation, somebody screwed up.

Calling her hair "strawberry blonde" was almost an insult to the pink it really was. It was soft, matte, and cropped at the chin; the style itself nearly touched the line between stylish and an absolute disaster. Sakura took pride in her hair, not only for it's rare, wild beauty, but how never did it once distract her from her work; as a shinobi, long hair was simply an inconvenience, and Sakura managed to make it manageable and something to be jealous of.

Her eyes filled up nearly her entire face; the color of a broken beer-bottle, sharp and liquefied with wisdom, not from years, but from hardship, work, and experience. Sakura had a heartbreakingly beautiful smile that never quite reached those eyes of hers, which were equally as heartbreaking, if not more-so. They forever looked wet, like at any moment, the young woman could burst into tears without a second thought.

Or maybe she was always crying, silently.

Her skin was alabaster, slowly growing paler and paler with the years. In her youth, her cheeks were filled with the rosiness of a happy child, which slowly dissipated with age and exhaustion. Now, though some would claim her white-like skin only helped accent her strange features, others would claim she looked sickly. She had deep bags under her eyes, purple and black; some would go as far as to say that she looked nearly dead—and maybe she was, nearly dead.

Her body itself was lithe and feminine; she was petite, curvaceous, and everything she didn't want to be. When she walked, it was like wind; fast, unseen, with a certain beauty that was perfectly natural, rather than being acquired from years of practice.

Sakura herself wasn't like the wind, though. When she fought, she was not a ballerina—on the contrary; she was rough, sharp and almost messy. She could level a forest with a finger; crack the naked earth with her fist if she felt the need to do so. She was not dainty, she was not clean-cut; she was a disaster waiting to happen, like a bomb, ready to shatter a world.

On one side of the spectrum, she was a natural disaster—an earthquake—and on the other side, one could go as far as to say that Sakura was mother nature herself; beautiful, broken, trying so hard to salvage a world that may not be fixable, pouring her heart into an almost lost cause.

Yes, Sakura was an absolute disaster, with years of wear and tear shown vividly in her features, but Sakura was passion in its essence, and Sakura was beautiful.

Drabble, drabble, drabble.

Peace.