Your Scars Are Stars

It doesn't matter how deep the wound,

Or how long the night has burdened you.

Each crack in your soul, every fracture in your heart,

Bears a light that darkness can't extinguish.

You've been told to hide your scars, to shroud your pain in shame,

But what if they are constellations, calling out your name?

A map of survival, traced by time and trial

Evidence that you've suffered—not to suffer, but to reclaim.

You are a warrior who wages wars unseen,

Or a gentle heart who loves in whispers, not screams,

A soul who laughs too loudly, or one who bleeds silently,

You are not broken. You are a mosaic of meaning.

The world did not falter when it crafted your skin.

It pushed stardust into your wounds, let galaxies start.

Each scar, a tale; each flaw, a compass—

You were made with purpose, just as you've been.

When the world attempts to define you—too much, not enough—

When the shadows of "failure" swell rough and repel,

Remember: the same storms that battered you also selected you,

To bear their lightning as evidence—you are made of stronger material.

You might roam through valleys, lost in the pain of "why?",

But the stars in your scars will relearn the sky.

They'll drag you out of the darkness, sew your purpose back together,

Turn all "never" to "now," all "end" to "fly."

So let no voice tell you your light is a mistake.

You are not a lesson. Not a warning. Not a break.

You are the universe in motion—a revolution of fire—

And every scar you bear burns brighter for its sake.

No matter how far you fall, or how broken you feel

The world warps to heal you, to softly say, "You are real."

Your wounds are not shackles. They are bridges. They are wings.

Listen to their light, courageous one—they'll take you home to heal.

You are not your agony.

You are the sunrise that follows it.

Your wounds? They're simply the stars

Building your path back to you.