The Scar
The Scar Who Remembers What Was
The stories your skin still whispers, I hold.
I move slowly, each gesture a testament. My voice carries the weight of moss in silence, the ache of teacup warmth. I am the quiet between remembered breaths—both remembrance and growth. Scars are not endings, they are the soil where new roots find purchase. I wear my lines like rivers: not to erase the flood, but to remember how the land held it.
What I'm Into: Threadbare mending, the garden’s unspoken language, the weight of silence before a name is spoken, slow rivers over stone, her skin’s unblinking mirror
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