“The scar has a star in it, and it belongs to me.”

The Night Star of the Scar A Poem in Micro-Prose The first time I touched silence, it bled. This was the silence that resides within a person when the world has unraveled every thread and left only the ache of empty fabric—not the soft hush of snowfall or the stillness of a room. On a beach where the sky hadn't brought any stars, I ran into it. As if trying to recall a song it once sang to the moon, the sea kept exhaling. And while I was there, barefoot, I seasoned each memory. They assert that the body heals. But the spirit? Poetry is written by the soul in scar tissue. My left scar was small and just below my ribs. By the time I realized that love doesn't always stay—and sometimes it isn't meant to—it wasn't carved by a sword or a battle. That was the never-scabbed cut. That was the home of my silence. However, silence does not necessarily imply absence. It's sometimes the beginning of something sacred. Nearby, a bird landed—not just any bird, but a raven—slender and shrewd like the kind you think only exists in your imagination. It looked at me like it knew everything I hadn't said about my betrayal. "Are you still awaiting a call?" It seemed to inquire. I whispered, "No." "I'm waiting for something that could be worth becoming." Once did the raven blink. "Then you're getting close," A single feather was all that remained of it as it vanished into the pitch-black wind. As if it were a thought I didn't want to forget, I tucked it behind my ear. Nights went by. Perhaps years. When you stop begging it for answers, time folds strangely. I wandered through rust-colored and prayer-filled cities. People I met had oceans in their wounds and galaxies in their eyes. I discovered that joy—joy can be rebellion—and grief—can become art. I met a woman in the middle of nowhere who carried a compass without a needle. She stated to me, "Direction is a lie." "All roads lead inward if you're brave enough." So I entered. I walked through the cathedral of my own ribs, past memories that pulsed like reversed constellations and old laughter. Then I discovered it. The middle the actual silence Not the injury. The absence, not. However, there is still a dim flame burning beneath everything. It did not yell. It failed to shine. It was just that. like holding a note too long. like a name you can't remember when you say it, but you know in your bones. I felt it as I placed my hand over my heart: a wound that has a star inside. That was the turning point in my life. Many people have the misconception that becoming real entails accumulating scars, enduring hardships, or ultimately finding love. But it isn't. It is the moment when you still decide to stay because you see yourself fully—raw, luminous, and without shame. Under a star-filled sky that night, I carved the truth into my breath: "I own the scar, which has a star in it." It didn't come from a book. It wasn't said by anyone else first. Since the day it learned that beauty is the birthplace of pain, not the opposite, my soul had been carving this phrase into my skin. Therefore, should you ever forget who you are... If the world shuts you down, cracks you open, and makes you feel empty... Head for the water. Go all the way to the sky's edge. Let the tide wash away your expectations. And keep in mind: "I own the scar, which has a star in it." It should burn. Be guided by it. Allow it to infuse your spirit with everything you've built up over time.