Wounds Heal Scars Don't Quotes

Scars exist to show that I existed. I myself don’t have any scars, but every single one of my friends has a healed up knife wound deep in their back.


I want some kind of reminder that while wounds heal, they don't disappear forever- I carry them everywhere, always, and that is the way of things, the way of scars.

It has been said that time heals all wounds, I don't agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue, and the pain lessens, but is never gone.

Some of us can begin to heal the damage people have done to us by escaping the situation, but some of us need more than that. Tattoos make statements that need to be made. Or hide things that are no one's business. Your scars are battle wounds, but you don't see them that way. Yet.

People say that time heals all wounds, and maybe they're right. But what if the wounds don't heal correctly, like when cuts leave behind nasty scars, or when broken bones mend together, but aren't as smooth anymore? Does it mean they're really healed? Or is it that the body did what it could to fix what broke...

Time heals all wounds. Il tempo guarisce tutti i mali. It’s been said time and time again, but what they don’t talk about are the jagged scars left behind. What they don’t tell you is that sometimes, when ignored, the wounds fester

Scars are the evidence that wounds can heal. That wounds don't last forever. That healing is possible.

Talking about him feels like rubbing at a raw wound, but I don't know how to stop. Some wounds you don't want to heal all the way. Some wounds you want to leave a scar.

Abruptly, she yanked the covers over her crippled one, hiding it from him. Tohr marched right back over to her, and resolutely pulled the duvet back where it had been. Tracing the badly healed wounds with his fingertips, he met her squarely in the eye. "You're beautiful. Every inch of you. Don't think for a moment there's anything wrong with you. We clear?" "But-" "Nope. I'm not hearing that." Bending down he pressed his lips to her shin, her calf, her ankle, tracing the scars, caressing them. "Beautiful. All of you." "How can you say that," she whispered blinking back tears. "Because it's the truth."Straightening, he gave her a final squeeze. "No hiding from me, okay. And after I feed you, I think I'm going to have to show you just how serious I am." That made her smile....then laugh a little. "That's my girl." he murmured.

Wounds heal,they don't dissapear forever-I carry them everywhere,always, and that is the way of things,the way of scars.

Time heals. Crushes let up. Splinters work their way out. Doesn't mean they don't leave scars that itch.

Some wounds you don’t want to heal all the way. Some wounds, you want to leave a scar.

People like to say that time heals all wounds, but I don't believe it. I remember once Grandpa took me firewood cutting, and as we looked at the rings of the tree together, he pointed out the years where there was drought and the years where there was fire. So while time allowed for new growth that hid the scars of the past, those scars were still there, inside the tree, and part of the tree. I think about how I am like that tree.

I have a scar-a faint gouge in my knee from when I fell down on the sidewalk as a child. It's always seemed stupid to me that none of the pain I've experienced has left a visible mark; sometimes, without a way to prove it to myself. I began to doubt that I had lied through it at all, with the memories becoming hazy over time. I want to have some kind of reminder that while wounds heal, they don't disappear forever- I carry them everywhere, always, and that is the way of things, the way of scars. That is what this tattoo will be, for me: a scar. And it seems fitting that it should document the worst memory of pain I have.

I don’t even know how to thank you, Gavin. You’ve accepted me with every fragile weakness I have, loving me no less than a woman without faults. A woman without fears. Every look, touch, and kiss you’ve given without judgment of any kind. You’ve healed every exposed wound, old scar, and piece of pain I brought into this relationship without expecting anything in return. You’ve shown me what a racing heart feels like, shown me mere thoughts could easily cease with a single kiss. You’ve shown me what it is to feel truly, wholeheartedly, until the end of time loved. How do I thank you for all of this?

It’s always seemed stupid to me that none of the pain I’ve experienced has left a visible mark; sometimes, without a way to prove it to myself, I began to doubt that I had lived through it at all, with the memories becoming hazy over time. I want to have some kind of reminder that while wounds heal, they don’t disappear forever— I carry them everywhere, always, and that is the way of things, the way of scars.

I want you to learn that if you don't keep picking at old wounds, over time they will eventually heal. Oh sure, sometimes they will leave a nasty, jagged scar, but at least it won't hurt like it did anymore, and if you don't look at it, sometimes you can almost forget it's there.

There is no greatness in dying for love, Raakha, she wanted to say. Those who die untimely, violent deaths don’t become ashes. They become guilty scars on the flesh of the living. They become wounds that never heal no matter how much time passes.

Trauma wounds are invisible. We cannot see visible bruises, cuts, or scars. Yet, if we don’t tend to them, we can carry them throughout our lives. We may relive our trauma over and over, again.

When we get hurt, our bodies immediately start trying to heal that hurt. This works for emotions as well. If we were scarred socially, by an incident of rejection or bullying, we immediately start trying to heal. Like pus comes out of wounds, emotions flow from psychological wounds. And what do we really need at that moment? When we are out of that dangerous situation that scarred us, and we become triggered by some little thing - what do we need? Do we need someone to look at us and say, "Wow, you're really sensitive, aren't you?" or "Hey, man, I didn't mean it like that."? Do we need someone to justify their actions or tell us to take it easy, because the situation didn't really require such a reaction? And, from ourselves, do we really need four pounds of judgment with liberal helpings of shame? Do we need to run away, to suppress, to hate our "over-sensitivity" to situations that seem innocuous to others? No. We do not need all of these versions of rejection of a natural healing process. You would not feel shame over a wound doing what it must do to heal, nor would you shame another. So why do we do this to our heart wounds? Why do we do it to ourselves? To others? Next time some harmless situation triggers you or someone around you into an intense emotion - realize it's an attempt at emotional healing. Realize the danger is no longer there, but don't suppress the healing of old dangers and old pains. Allow the pain. Don't react, but don't repress. Embrace the pain. Embrace the pain of others. Like this, we have some chance at healing the endless cycles of generational repression and suppression that are rolling around in our society. Fall open. Break open. Sit with others' openness. Let love be your medicine.

I have a scar - a faint gouge in my knee from when I fell down on the sidewalk as a child. It's always seemed stupid to me that none of the pain I've experienced has left a visible mark; sometimes, without a way to prove it to myself, I began to doubt that I had lived through it at all, with the memories becoming hazy over time. I want to have some kind of reminder that while wounds heal, they don't disappear forever - I carry them everywhere, always, and that is the way of things, the way of scars.

Deep wounds always leave a mark, killer. Some scar worse than others, and some don’t ever fully heal. They just scab over, muted and dulled until you prick them a certain way.

Not all scars show, not all wounds heal. Often we don't see, the pain someone feels. A broken heart is like having broken ribs. No one can see but hurts everytime you breathe.

Love embraces the totality of the other person. It is impossible to completely and effectively love someone without being included in that other person’s history. Our history has made us who we are. The images, scars, and victories that we live with have shaped us into the people we have become. We will never know who a person is until we understand where they have been. The secret of being transformed from a vulnerable victim to a victorious, loving person is found in the ability to open your past to someone responsible enough to share your weaknesses and pains. “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ” (Gal. 6:2). You don’t have to keep reliving it. You can release it.

The only way to heal from the pain of the past is to walk through that pain in the present. It's terrifying, I know. It feels safer to just let the pain continue to smolder in the darkest parts of yourself. But the dark parts need tending, too, my friend. Don't be afraid to breathe life back into those embers of old pain, to rekindle the fires of unhealed hurts. The flames aren't there to burn you. They are there to light your way through pain to healing. You can walk through courageous and confident or shaking in your boots. It doesn't matter. Just walk through it. Hurt will transform into hope, wounds into wisdom, suffering into scars that tell of battles won and lost and of a human who survived it all.

Some of us can begin to heal the damage people have done to us by escaping the situation, but some of us need more than that. Tattoos make statements that need to be made. Or hide things that are no one’s business. Your scars are battle wounds, but you don’t see them that way. Yet.

We don’t, not any of us, get to this point clean. No. We’re all dirty and ragged. Rough edges and sharp corners. Fault lines and demolition zones. We’ve got tear gas riot squads aiming straight for the protest lines of our weary souls. Landmines in our chests that we trip over every time we try to hide from the terrifying tremble of our own war torn hearts....But it is your history that delivered you this roadmap of scars. Those healed wounds and their jagged edges are proof of your infinite ability to survive, to knit broken back to wholeness, to refuse that the end is every really the end... Make friends with your teardown. Do not run from your bar brawl for forgiveness. Sit with the times you’ve fucked up and the times you lost all and the days your redemption was delivered by the hand of the last person you ever expected to give anything but darkness. And through it all know that your walled up and torn down, graffiti-covered heart is still the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

I keeled over sideways. The world turned fluffy, bleached of all color. Nothing hurt anymore. I was dimly aware of Diana’s face hovering over me, Meg and Hazel peering over the goddess’s shoulders. “He’s almost gone,” Diana said. Then I was gone. My mind slipped into a pool of cold, slimy darkness. “Oh, no, you don’t.” My sister’s voice woke me rudely. I’d been so comfortable, so nonexistent. Life surged back into me—cold, sharp, and unfairly painful. Diana’s face came into focus. She looked annoyed, which seemed on-brand for her. As for me, I felt surprisingly good. The pain in my gut was gone. My muscles didn’t burn. I could breathe without difficulty. I must have slept for decades. “H-how long was I out?” I croaked. “Roughly three seconds,” she said. “Now, get up, drama queen.” She helped me to my feet. I felt a bit unsteady, but I was delighted to find that my legs had any strength at all. My skin was no longer gray. The lines of infection were gone. The Arrow of Dodona was still in my hand, though he had gone silent, perhaps in awe of the goddess’s presence. Or perhaps he was still trying to get the taste of “Sweet Caroline” out of his imaginary mouth. I beamed at my sister. It was so good to see her disapproving I-can’t-believe-you’re-my-brother frown again. “I love you,” I said, my voice hoarse with emotion. She blinked, clearly unsure what to do with this information. “You really have changed.” “I missed you!” “Y-yes, well. I’m here now. Even Dad couldn’t argue with a Sibylline invocation from Temple Hill.” “It worked, then!” I grinned at Hazel and Meg. “It worked!” “Yeah,” Meg said wearily. “Hi, Artemis.” “Diana,” my sister corrected. “But hello, Meg.” For her, my sister had a smile. “You’ve done well, young warrior.” Meg blushed. She kicked at the scattered zombie dust on the floor and shrugged. “Eh.” I checked my stomach, which was easy, since my shirt was in tatters. The bandages had vanished, along with the festering wound. Only a thin white scar remained. “So…I’m healed?” My flab told me she hadn’t restored me to my godly self. Nah, that would have been too much to expect. Diana raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m not the goddess of healing, but I’m still a goddess. I think I can take care of my little brother’s boo-boos.” “Little brother?” She smirked.

It's okay to bleed on someone who didn't cut you. Don't wait until you're scarred over to ask for help. Healing starts when the wound is still new.

And still the wound bleeds” “‘I don't want to heal,’ Zoya said angrily, her cheeks wet with tears. Below, she saw the version of Novokribirsk that existed in this twilight world, a black scar across the lands. ‘I need it.

We pick at scabs of a bleeding heart because we don’t want time to carry on and allow the wound to heal and scar over, we wish to perpetuate, prolong, and preserve the last time they were close to us, before they walked away.

Is it true?” I ask him. “Is what true?” His eyes are the color of honey. These are the eyes I remember from my dreams. “That you still love me,” I say, breathless. “I need to know.” Alex nods. He reaches out and touches my face—barely skimming my cheekbone and brushing away a bit of my hair. “It’s true.” “But . . . I’ve changed,” I say. “And you’ve changed.” “That’s true too,” he says quietly. I look at the scar on his face, stretching from his left eye to his jawline, and something hitches in my chest. “So what now?” I ask him. The light is too bright; the day feels as though it’s merging into dream. “Do you love me?” Alex asks. And I could cry; I could press my face into his chest and breathe in, and pretend that nothing has changed, that everything will be perfect and whole and healed again. But I can’t. I know I can’t. “I never stopped.” I look away from him. I look at Grace, and the high grass littered with the wounded and the dead. I think of Julian, and his clear blue eyes, his patience and goodness. I think of all the fighting we’ve done, and all the fighting we have yet to do. I take a deep breath. “But it’s more complicated than that.” Alex reaches out and places his hands on my shoulders. “I’m not going to run away again,” he says. “I don’t want you to,” I tell him. His fingers find my cheek, and I rest for a second against his palm, letting the pain of the past few months flow out of me, letting him turn my head toward his. Then he bends down and kisses me: light and perfect, his lips just barely meeting mine, a kiss that promises renewal.

I wish you’d told me this before.” “It wouldn’t have changed anything.” “Maybe not. But talking about wounds can help heal them.” “You don’t talk about yours,” she pointed out. He sat down on the sofa facing her and leaned forward. “But I do,” he said seriously. “I talk to you. I’ve never told anyone else about the way my father treated us. That’s a deeply personal thing. I don’t share it. I can’t share it with anyone but you.” “I’m part of your life,” she said heavily, smoothing her hair back again. “Neither of us can help that. You were my comfort when Mama died, my very salvation when my stepfather hurt me. But I can’t expect you to go on taking care of me. I’m twenty-five years old, Tate. I have to let you go.” “No, you don’t.” He caught her wrists and pulled her closer. He was more solemn than she’d ever seen him. “I’m tired of fighting it. Let’s find out how deep your scars ago. Come to bed with me, Cecily. I know enough to make it easy for you.” She stared at him blankly. “Tate…” She touched his lean cheek hesitantly. He was offering her paradise, if she could face her own demons in bed with him. “This will only make things worse, whatever happens.” “You want me,” he said gently. “And I want you. Let’s get rid of the ghosts. If you can get past the fear, I won’t have anyone else from now on except you. I’ll come to you when I’m happy, when I’m sad, when the world falls on me. I’ll lie in your arms and comfort you when you’re sad, when you’re frightened. You can come to me when you need to be held, when you need me. I’ll cherish you.” “And you’ll make sure I never get pregnant.” His face tautened. “You know how I feel about. I’ve never made a secret of it. I won’t compromise on that issue, ever.” She touched his long hair, thinking how beautiful he was, how beloved. Could she live with only a part of him, watch him leave her one day to marry another woman? If he never knew the truth about his father, he might do that. She couldn’t tell him about Matt Holden, even to insure her own happiness. He glanced at her, puzzled by the expression on her face. “I’ll be careful,” he said. “And very slow. I won’t hurt you, in any way.” “Colby might come back…” He shook his head. “No. He won’t.” He stood up, pulling her with him. He saw the faint indecision in her face. “I won’t ask for more than you can give me,” he said quietly. “If you only want to lie in my arms and be kissed, that’s what we’ll do.” She looked up into his dark eyes and an unsteady sigh passed her lips. “I would give…anything…to let you love me,” she said huskily. “For eight long years…!” His mouth covered the painful words, stilling them.

At first, it’s like you’re walking around with this gaping wound in your chest, and it seems impossible that no one else can see it. Every time they pretend not to, you want to scream. But then, if they actually do notice, you don’t even want to think about the pain, much less talk about it. Try to explain it. Nothing you do will quicken the process or dull it, either. You just have to survive moment to moment, day to day, until one morning you wake up and it hurts a little less. There are setbacks, of course—you’ll have a thought or see something that reminds you of him, and it’s like you picked at the scab. But it does eventually fade… into a scar.

For years now I've found the Earth haunted. Azoological beasts rage in untraceable configurations. They're called governments. Wounds made that never heal on every acre and covered with the scar tissue of our living existence. The argument at bedrock: I don't want to live on Earth but I don't want to die.

I know it’s a lie, what they say: that time heals all wounds. It doesn’t. Time fades the scars a little, but like physical scars, soft spots on our hearts don’t really mend. If you press hard enough on them, they ache. They even break wide open sometimes. Like

Living Hurts [Verse] Woke up this morning to the sound of rain, Tears and thunder, just a different kind of pain. Got my coffee, took a sip, tried to feel alright, But the heartache's like a storm, rollin’ in tonight. [Verse 2] Saw an old photo, brought me right to my knees, Memories of a love, scattered like autumn leaves. In this small town where the years go by slow, Life is a mess, but it's the mess that helps us grow. [Chorus] Living hurts, oh but make it worth the pain, The tears fall like raindrops on a window pane. When the world bears down on your weary soul, Don't close your eyes, let the heartache make you whole. [Verse 3] The fields are overgrown with yesterday's dreams, Broken fences, shattered hopes, and silent screams. Yet there’s beauty in the wreckage, strength in the scars, In the darkest moments, we find who we really are. [Chorus] Living hurts, oh but make it worth the pain, The tears fall like raindrops on a window pane. When the world bears down on your weary soul, Don't close your eyes, let the heartache make you whole. [Bridge] Sometimes the hurtin's what keeps us alive, It's in the cracks where the light truly thrives. So stand in your sorrow, don't be afraid to feel, It’s the wounds that heal us, make the love real.

Tell me what you’re hiding, what you’re harboring, what you don’t want the world to know about yourself for fear that it will be cast into light. Tell me about the times you couldn’t save yourself. Give me your broken parts, your fractured pieces, everything that’s weighed too heavily on the floor of your heart for you to ever reach down and reassemble. Tell me where you went the first time that you lost yourself. Tell me the ways in which you never came back. Give me a map with coordinates that lead into the deepest, most twisted corner of your soul where all of your unconquered demons still lurk. Let me see them. Let me reach out and touch them with my own trembling fingers, because I still can’t bear to face my own. Give me your shortcomings. Tell me the story of the first person you never became and all the ways in which you let him die. Tell me which regrets tear on your heartstrings and which unfulfilled dreams still take up residence under your skin. Show me the mountains you never conquered, the roads you never traversed, the battles you surrendered before ever setting foot upon enemy soil. Show me the things you never measured up to because there’s no war more wounding than the one we never waged and there’s no road more daunting than the one that we never walked down. Give me your struggles and impurities. Tell me about the worst thing you have ever done. Tell me about the regret that slithered under your skin and beat through your bloodstream like an unwelcome disease after you made the biggest mistake of your life. Tell me how it ripped straight into to your soul and took you over. Talk to me about the times you couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror or fall asleep at night because the malevolence and madness of your own mind kept you reeling. Give me your vices and misjudgments because I can match each one with my own. Tell me all the ways in which you’re scarred by your own capacity for darkness. Let me fall in love with your human parts – the battles you can’t fight, the wounds you can’t heal, all the ways in which you are not enough for yourself. Give me your joys and your pain in equal measure because you are the most brilliant and terrible mixture of both. I don’t want your good intentions and your well wishes. I want the whole of you, the depth of you, the breadth of all you are and the light that shines in between your broken parts. Let me fall in love with what you’re missing, what you’ve lost and what you’re still holding onto, through and despite all of it. Show me the things you haven’t lost along the way. And I will show you your own greatest strengths.

A scar will appear and that means the extreme hurt and unbearable pain is over, your wound will be healed—but don’t ever let your heart close. Leave it open, let someone else in.

He tried again and again to have you killed or to usurp your power. If it was up to me, he would die for his treachery. But the final decision must be yours, my Lady,” he sent through our bond. “I don’t believe the bastard deserves to be healed but I know how compassionate you are.” First do no harm, I told myself. With a sigh, I placed my glowing hands gently on Morbain’s shoulders. He reacted with a gasp and tried to shake off my grip. But he couldn’t—again I felt the Goddess’s energy flow through me and again she spoke, using my mouth as her own. “For the sins you have committed against your own mother, Sundalla the 999th and for the attempts you have made against my new scion, Sundalla the 1000th, I condemn you,” the Goddess boomed. “You shall carry the wounds and pain of your time in the Garden of Death with you for the rest of your immortal life, Morbain. Never healing, never scarring—always fresh and weeping—your wounds will serve as a reminder to those that come after. This is your punishment from which you may not escape, even into death.” Then

The enslaved soul is sick and needs reviving. In the early centuries of the church, people began to speak of the “cure of the soul.” One of the early church fathers wrote, “For the cure [sometimes translated as “care”] of the soul, the most variable and manifold of creatures, seems to me in very deed to be the art of arts and science of sciences.” He goes on to say that the cure of souls is harder work, more important than healing bodies. Sometimes when we use a therapeutic word like healing, it can sound as if we’re only talking about the wounds and the scars and the hurts we carry around. We do all have those. It’s good to be open about them, but at the core, the disease that really threatens our soul is sin. I am complicit in the sickness of my soul in a different way than in diseases that attack my body. I say yes to greed and lust in a way I don’t say yes to colds and strep throat.

Time is supposed to heal all wounds. Which is a thing people say when they’ve never been cut to the bone. The big wounds, even when they do heal, they don’t heal right. Every time you move you feel the tug of the scar tissue.

It’s easier when you are older.  Life has beaten you up a lot more and you’re better able to take it.  It’s too hard when you’re a kid.  You don’t have the scars to protect you.  You just have wounds that haven’t healed yet.  You’re still too honest, still too trusting.  Still too hopeful. 

I don’t care if you have a big mansion with all the comforts! I am Mom, and I know what is best! You can have her back when she is all better! I know that you miss her and you want nothing more than to hover over her…but that is my job. You just settle yourself, mister, and do what you do best and I will do what I do best! I have done a good job of it for thirty-two years!” I sat up, biting my lip when she grew silent, obviously listening to him. I wished I could hear the rough and lovely voice on the other end. “And she loves you too, Liam…she is safe here…and I will tell her you called. If she is up to it I will even let her call you,” she teased. “If you will behave yourself and not get her worked up! She’s in healing mode now. No…I am not bringing her there! You want to see her…you bring your little tush here. Oh, you don’t like that idea? Well then, you will just have to be patient! The doctor said she needs to rest for a few days. The wound is fine…but after the shock she went through she doesn’t need added stress…so stop your pushing!” I covered my mouth to stifle my laugh. My mom had never been afraid of anyone…not even powerful billionaires! She laughed at something he said now. “I really like you, you know that? I’m glad she has you!” She was silent for another moment. “I will make sure she is awake in an hour to receive the package Stewart brings over,” she promised. ”Take care!

Don't ever allow the disharmony of others to become your own a mindful practice of discernment (and the dislike for wearing bullshit) builds the eye, heart and spiritual muscles.

Baltsaros, what have you done? he thought weakly. Run and find me. Run and find me. Run. Jon felt dizzy, the two images of the captain overlapping: one charming and gentle, the other a blood-thirsty murderer. He let out a slow breath, his pulse thrumming in his ears. The monster holding his arms stared at him while the seconds ticked by. Baltsaros was crazy. Tom knew it and had hid the captain’s insanity from him. Jon had to get away, now. Before it was too late. Before Baltsaros finished the job he had started the night they passed the spires. Before he went crazy himself. He had to go. Had to. Jon didn’t move. He simply closed his eyes. The captain loosened his grip on Jon’s arms, and his fingers stroked Jon’s skin softly. He turned Jon’s forearms in his hands and laughed quietly. Jon let out a small gasp as the captain ran a fingertip along the fresh knife wound. “I’m not crazy, Jon,” whispered Baltsaros. The captain touched the healed scar on the inside of Jon’s other forearm, the one that had been made in a tiny room above a tavern half a world away. “You believe in blood magic too, after all.” Jon’s eyes snapped open, and he growled at Baltsaros. “Don’t you dare equate the pact we made with your damned perversions.” He yanked his arms out of Baltsaros’s grasp and pulled himself backwards on the bed.

They say time heals all wounds, but I was beginning to lose faith in that statement. How does anything heal wounds that don’t bleed? That aren’t severed or cut? They don’t scab or close. There was no healing salve or stitch or tea to mend the areas afflicted. How could one heal a wound that reopened with every mention or memory? Would that not lead to a scar more permanent than a wound of grief? A scar of nostalgia, a constant reminder of something or someone irretrievably gone.

You have strength, Amara. I can see that. And the strong don’t have bleeding wounds; they have scars that heal.

This too shall pass. Life has a way of going on, and you do your best and move with it. A broken heart heals. Like every wound, there’s a scar, a memory, but it fades. Finally you realize that an hour has passed without your thinking about it, then a day. I don’t know if that answers your question …” Lauren stared at the flames. “The old ‘time heals all wounds’ answer, huh?

I do not believe every problem can be cured with a kitten. I do believe in love. And perhaps love can’t cure every problem, but it makes the wounds heal a bit faster, with fewer scars. I understand why you don’t believe that. How could you, if you’ve never known it yourself?

I would define reconcile as means of closing the wound and allowing it to heal. The scars will be there to remind you that you were once hurt. But the pain of the wound will be gone. If we don’t reconcile. It means we are not allowing the wound to heal. We will experience the pain every day . Even if the people who hurt us are no longer there or no longer hurting us. Let us reconcile, so we can no longer feel the pain and hurt. But most importantly . Let us reconcile so we can build our families, communities, societies, nation and our countries.

Their wounds might not be scars yet - they might still be festering, bleeding sores. I know mine are. People act like time heals all wounds, but all it really does is make the torn flesh rough and hard with glossy pink scar tissue. That's the best-case scenario, and I don't think any of us are even there yet.

I’ve survived and I am not stronger for it. I am not proud to wear the scars, they are a reminder of the pain I've endured. although my body has healed, my mind still bleeds like they are fresh. people around me have become so tired of the same story and I don't even tell it anymore. I wish they understood that I'm tired too. tired of pretending that I’m okay, and that "time heals all wounds" (it doesn’t) the trauma literally changed my brain. overstimulated amygdala, underactive hippocampus, weak prefrontal cortex. I’ve survived and I am not stronger for it.

World History 101 - The Actual History History is not a record of truth, history is a record of triumph. The triumphant writes history as it fits their narrative - or to be more accurate, history is written by the conquerors for maintaining the supremacy of the conquerors, while the conquered lose everything. Let me give you an example. In a commendable endeavor of goodwill and reparations a descendant of the British conquerors, President Lyndon Johnson started Hispanic Heritage Week, which was later expanded into a month by another white descendant, President Ronald Reagan - fast forward to present time - during the Hispanic Heritage Month the entire North America tries to celebrate Native American history. But there is a glitch - Spanish is not even a Native American language. Native Americans did not even speak Spanish, until the brutes of Spain overran Puerto Rico like pest bearing disease and destruction, after a pathetic criminal called Columbus stumbled upon "La Isabela" in the 1500s. Many of the natives struggled till death to save their home - many were killed by the foreign diseases to which they had no immunity. Those who lived, every last trace of their identity was wiped out, by the all-powerful and glorious spanish colonizers - their language, their traditions, their heritage, everything - just like the Portuguese did in Brazil. The Spaniards would've done the same to Philippines on the other side of the globe, had they had the convenience to stay longer. Heck, even the name Philippines is not the original name - the original name of the islands was (probably) Maniolas, as referred to by Ptolemy. But when the Spaniard retards of the time set foot there, they named it after, then crown prince, later Philip II of Spain. Just reminiscing those abominable atrocities makes my blood boil, and yet somehow, the brutal "glory" of the conquerors lives on as such even in this day and age, as glory that is. That's why José Martí is so important, that's why Kwanzaa is so important, that's why Darna is so important - in the making of a world that has a place for every culture, not just the culture of the conquerors. No other "civilized" people have done more damage to the world than the Europeans, and yet, on the pages of history books their glory of conquest is still packaged as glory, not as atrocity. Why is that? I don't know the answer - do you? Trillions of dollars, pounds and euros in aid won't suffice to undo the damage - but what just might heal those wounds from the past, is if the offspring of the oppressors and the offspring of the oppressed, both hand in hand and shoulder to shoulder, unravel the history as it happened, not as it was presented - what just might heal the scars of yesterday, is if together we come forward to learn about each other's past, so that for the first time in history, we can actually write "human history", not the "conquerors' history" - so that for the first time ever, we write history not as conquerors and conquered, not as oppressors and oppressed, but as one species - as one humankind.

My wife used to tell me hearts only bruise. They never break. I don’t know if I believe that anymore. I know this world is cruel. That saints and sinners suffer one and the same. I know every time you give a piece of yourself to someone, you risk them breaking it. I know there are some wounds that never truly heal, and sometimes all that’s left of people are their scars. I know time eats us all alive.

Shedding: She asked "How can you keep shedding your past? Your failures, your losses, and people you once loved?" And I replied: "Because there are some things you just cannot keep. They have provided you with the lesson, and you have taken the growth, So what is left to hold onto? Keep shedding sweetheart. Keep finding new and wonderful strengths that you never imagined you owned, Climbing mountains you never thought you'd climb, And mending your wounded heart for yet another time Life is all about shedding. So don't keep hurting the softness of your soul. Life's most profound gifts are held in the hands of those who can learn so graciously to let go".

When I look at people, I don’t see their wounds. I see their scars. Because scars mean healing.

Wounded" The guy who put his hands on you Has got nothing to do with me And the bruises that you feel will heal And I hope you'll come around 'Cause we're missing you And you used to speak so easy Now you're afraid to talk to me It's like walking with the wounded Carrying that weight way too far The concrete pulled you down so hard Out there with the wounded Missing you Well I never claimed to understand what happens after dark But my fingers catch sparks at the thought of touching you When you're wounded Let me break it down 'till I force the issue We miss your face and you know I wish you Would come back down the the Dalva Bar You tell 'em, that's just my battle scar I want to kiss you And knock 'em down like we used to You're the marigold Till you're walking down shaking that ass again And then you walk on, baby walk on, you walk on, on and on You're an angel in the pit with her hands in the air And we're missing you Now it's fall, and your shoulders get tighter Nervous flicks on the lighter, boots Your pissed off poets, your women's groups And the friends with you, we should have known this fool Well I guess we missed the mark Still my fingers catch the sparks at the thought of them touching you Now you're wounded Let me break it down 'till I force the issue You never come around, and you know we miss you Well nobody took your pride away I said, that's something people say Back down the bully to the back of the bus 'Cause it's time for them to be scared of us 'Till you're yelling, how we living cause you got the ball Then you rock on baby, rock on, you rock on, on and on You're a summer time hottie with her socks in the air You're screaming I don't care baby I don't care You say you don't know You say you can't grow All I know is we're missing you You say you don't know You say you can't grow All I know is we're missing you Show up, show up wounded Show up, show up wounded

The smallpox vaccine is administered with a double-pointed needle, which breaks the skin in several places and deposits the vaccine: The vaccine contains a milder virus that causes the body to react as it would to a real smallpox infection, resulting in swelling, a blister, and a scab. After a few weeks, the wound heals, leaving a distinctive round scar. The last case of smallpox in the United States was in 1949, and routine childhood smallpox vaccination in the United States and Canada ended in 1972. If you’re from the United States or Canada and have that vaccination mark on your upper arm or outer leg, it means you were born before about 1970.* The circular mark is a battle scar from humanity’s war against one of our most terrible foes. And if you don’t carry such a scar, that’s a testament to our victory.