Scars the Soul Chose

There are cities inside me that no one visits.

Whole streets paved with memories I never talk about.

Grief lives in the quiet corners—folded like old letters,

unread but never thrown away.

I once loved someone so deeply, I forgot where I ended.

When they left, I had to rebuild myself from the dust.

No directions. No map. Nothing but silence and a pulse. I learned to wear pain like perfume—strong enough to linger,

but never loud enough to entice a person to remain. The strongest people I know don’t heal.

Like a prayer etched into bone, they carry beauty in their brokenness. “Scars are just the places where the soul decided to keep going.”

That’s the line I’d tattoo.

There are no roses, wings, or birds. Only that. Simple, black, across the ribs. Where it might hurt—

but for a brief moment. Because if pain is proof that we lived,

If so, then the ink might be evidence that we made it.