Wounds Leave Scars Quotes

The human race tends to remember the abuses to which it has been subjected rather than the endearments. What's left of kisses? Wounds, however, leave scars.

For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow. Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life. A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail. A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live. When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all. A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother. So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.

People can't seem to get it through their heads that there is never any healing or closure. Ever. There is only a short pause before the next "horrifying" event. People forget there is such a thing as memory, and that when a wound "heals" it leaves a permanent scar that never goes away, but merely fades a little. What really ought to be said after one of these so-called tragedies is, "Let the scarring begin.

Wounded A bruise is tender but does not last, it leaves me as I always was. But a wound I take much more to heart, for a scar will always leave its mark. And if you should ask me which you are, my answer is - you are a scar.

I believe the saying “Time heals all wounds” is mostly accurate, although it doesn’t address the nature of the healing. Inevitably, some wounds leave deep scar

To be honest, it was pretty hard to leave. I desperately wanted to turn around, and tell him everything would be okay. That I adore him and I trust him and that I'll stand by him while he goes through this tough time. But I'm just too tired. I'm thirty years old. I'm tired of relationships that are always painful. I'm tired of hurting. I'm tired of waiting by the phone, and second-guessing what a guy says and trusting someone not to hurt me. Again. I've been storming the relationship castle for fifteen years, and I still don't have my prince. I've got a bunch of battle scars from the field and I want to go home and nurse my wounds. I don't want to fight anymore.

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...

You are afraid to let anyone in, but you still leave the door open, hoping someone good will shut the door behind him and throw away the keys.

If I were a cinnamon peeler I would ride your bed and leave the yellow bark dust on your pillow. Your breasts and shoulders would reek you could never walk through markets without the profession of my fingers floating over you. The blind would stumble certain of whom they approached though you might bathe under rain gutters, monsoon. Here on the upper thigh at this smooth pasture neighbor to your hair or the crease that cuts your back. This ankle. You will be known among strangers as the cinnamon peeler's wife. I could hardly glance at you before marriage never touch you -- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers. I buried my hands in saffron, disguised them over smoking tar, helped the honey gatherers... When we swam once I touched you in water and our bodies remained free, you could hold me and be blind of smell. You climbed the bank and said this is how you touch other women the grasscutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter. And you searched your arms for the missing perfume. and knew what good is it to be the lime burner's daughter left with no trace as if not spoken to in an act of love as if wounded without the pleasure of scar. You touched your belly to my hands in the dry air and said I am the cinnamon peeler's wife. Smell me.

Desire is an appetite, quickly sated. Longing is a wound, an opening in the heart or the spirit. Whatever the cause, whatever the duration, it almost always leaves a scar.

The wound made by hurting with fire will heal but the wound created by harsh words uttered using out tongue leaves an indelible scar.

Be grateful that Time will heal the wounds but Leave the scars. How else will you Remember all that You've survived?

They say that time heals all wounds. But even as wounds heal they leave scars, token reminders of the pain.

From her dubious tone alone, I could see how Karin had no idea how terrifying words spoken quietly could be. How words chosen precisely to wreak maximum damage ticked like a bomb in your head, but exploded in your heart hours later, leaving you scarred and changed.

One day you will meet someone who will break down your walls and stare into the depths of you. One day they will see the bruises on your soul, will hear about all of the terrible things you have done, and you will expect them to leave, but they won’t. They won’t. One day, you will meet someone who looks into the damage, who sees the wounds, the dark, and they will love you anyways. They will love you.

An accident you're in? It marks you on the outside, maybe. Scars your face or your skin-breaks bones,crushes skulls,leaves the body changed. An accident witnessed? You're different on the inside. Maybe there's no cut someone else can see, bu there're always injuries on the inside. Those take a long time to heal.

He scarred her arm...but she did not care because she loved him and she knew that love leaves a wound that leaves a scar.

Time heals everything, that’s what everyone says. Wounds heal and leave only scars behind. But some wounds run too deep to heal, and pierce the deepest layers of one’s soul. They stay there unhealed and ready to ooze blood at the first sign of grief.

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.

Our deepest, most painful wounds not only leave us with scars that we bear forever, but also, if we make our peace with them, leave us wiser, stronger, more sensitive than we otherwise would have been had we not been afflicted with them.

I was born Ezeogo Igariwey to live my life a legacy for the world,like a wound that healed with a scar that remains."My legacy will leave a mark on the world and I shall never be forgetten for my good,bad,and ugly deeds.

Whachoo want, white boy? Burn cream? A Band-Aid? Then he raised his own enormous palms to me, brought them up real close so I could see them properly; the hideous constellation of water-filled blisters, angry red welts from grill marks, the old scars, the raw flesh where steam or hot fat had made the skin simply roll off. They looked like the claws of some monstrous science-fiction crustacean, knobby and calloused under wounds old and new. I watched, transfixed, as Tyrone - his eyes never leaving mine - reached slowly under the broiler and, with one naked hand, picked up a glowing-hot sizzle-platter, moved it over to the cutting board, and set it down in front of me. He never flinched.

In a friendship, especially in a friendship between two young boys, you are allowed to inflict a certain amount of pain. This is even expected. But you must cause no serious injury; you must never, under any circumstances, leave wounds that will result in permanent scars.

A bruise is tender but does not last, it leaves me as I always was. But a wound I take much more to heart, for a scar will always leave its mark. And if you should ask which one you are, my answer is - you are a scar.

Oh Romina, that’s where you’re wrong. A story can hurt you. A good story can wound, maim, and scar. A good story will leave you questioning what you believe to be right or wrong for the sake of pseudo-pleasure fulfilled by some neurons shooting off sparks in your brain. A good story will tear your soul out from your chest and keep you from moving on until you find another that can take its place.

Wounds like that... wounds to the heart... they leave ugly scars that never fade.

Wounds inflicted at that sort of raw, unformed time in our lives tend to cut the deepest - and leave the worst scars.

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

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

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.

We all have scars, Kere. Inside and out. Wounds that go so deep, they leave a permanent mark on us. But that doesn’t make them ugly or revolting. They were hard lessons learned and for better or worse, they changed us. No matter how hard you try to hide them, they will always be there. And I think your scars are beautiful because they are what have made you the man I care about.” - Zarya Starska

You can't expect children to sew their own gaping wounds without leaving a terrible scar.

So, see? I’m much more scarred than you’ll ever be. Probably always will be.” There were other scars–from wounds that leave the skin unmarred.

You leave the past baggages behind. Remove the dry bandage. Your wounds have been healed. The scar might stay forever but you are no longer bleeding.

Leaving out trifles such as ricochets and grazes, I was hit at least fourteen times, these being five bullets, two shell splinters, one shrapnel ball, four hand-grenade splinters and two bullet splinters, which, with entry and exit wounds, left me an even twenty scars.

Pride roars through me like a river. It rushes over my oldest wounds and washes away the most haunting memories. It sweeps over all the scars that pushed me to leave my family and launch into space. Pride brighter than the sun.

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.

Love is a sensual battle,once you get wounded, the scar is perennial. "True love is hard to find, harder to leave and impossible to Forget

Time heals all wounds.” “But every wound leaves a scar.

Science would not have definite answers. Frankly, neither would faith. But it only the steadfast belief that a higher power is at work - that some greater purpose awaits - which helps a wounded surgeon get through days of incomprehensible losses. Every death leaves a scar that persists for a lifetime, a reminder that you are not infallible, and would never be.

Pain transcends through an invisible crack in your body and slithers inside you. It travels in your vessels, befriends every organ and leaves a great impression as a souvenir. A shaped scar, a burning bruise or a deep wound. This souvenir is a constant reminder of the excruciating past. The brutal wound throbs and it reminds you that the pain has not yet set you free. The tattoo still burns. The tattoo always burns.

To show you all my scars, is not to tell you that this Dunya would always leave you wounded, and bruised, and on knees, but to show you that see, healing is always possible. Healing is easy. Healing is beautiful.

It's not that your mother didn't love you,' the boy named Crow says from behind me. 'She loved you very deeply. The first thing you have to do is believe that. That's your starting point.' 'But she abandoned me. She disappeared, leaving me alone where I shouldn't be. I'm finally beginning to understand how much that hurt. How could she do it if she really loved me?' 'That's the reality of it. It did happen,'the boy named Crow says. 'You were hurt badly, and those scars will be with you forever. I feel sorry for you, I really do. But think of it like this: It's not too late to recover. You're young, you're tough. You're adaptable. You can patch up your wounds, lift your head, and move on. But for her that's not an option. The only thing she'll ever be is lost. It doesn't matter whether somebody judges this as good or bad- that's not the point. You're the one who has the advantage. You ought to consider that.' I don't respond. 'It all really happened, you can't undo it,' Crow tells me. 'She shouldn't have abandoned you then, and you shouldn't have been abandoned. But things in the past are like a plate that's shattered to pieces. You can never put it back together like it was, right?' I nod. You can never put it back together like it was. He's hit the nail on the head. The boy named Crow continues. 'Your mother felt a gut-wrenching kind of fear and anger inside her, okay? Just like you do now. Which is why she had to abandon you.' 'Even though she loved me?' 'Even though she loved you, she had to abandon you. You need to understand how she felt then, and learn to accept it. Understand the overpowering fear and anger she experienced, and feel it as your own- so you won't inherit it and repeat it. The main thing is this: You have to forgive her. That's not going to be easy, I know, but you have to do it. That's the only way you can be saved. There's no other way!' - pg 398-99

In a friendship, especially in a friendship between two young boys, you are allowed to inflict a certain amount of pain. This is even expected. But you must cause no serious injury; you must never, under any circumstances, leave wounds that will result in permanent scars.

This tattoo was supposed to be proof of his supremacy, and he will leave here with a wound that will scar into proof he is no white king, not even a knight.

Any type of scar leaves a trail of pain behind. We never forget what hurts us.

Run as fast as you like, Louise. You’ll never escape from me. Every wound leaves a scar. Just ask Esther Harcourt.

Some statements are too blunt for everyday, consensual discourse. In national “debate,” it is the smoother pebbles that are customarily gathered from the stream, and used as projectiles. They leave less of a scar, even when they hit. Occasionally, however, a single hard-edged remark will inflict a deep and jagged wound, a gash so ugly that it must be cauterized at once. In

poems of experience bear the scars and wounds and scorch marks, even the imperfections that damage leaves on the soul, but a good poem also testifies to the triumph of still being able to speak.

…grief is not a disease to be cured. Grief is a wound, not unlike that from a knife or a bludgeon. The injury will heal in time leaving a scar but the tissue is never quite the same. One moves forward changed.

Had the Battle of Franklin ever really ended? Carrie walked her cemetery, and around her the wounds closed up and scarred over, but only in that way that an oak struck by lightning heals itself by twisting and bending around the wound: it is still recognizably a tree, it still lives as a tree, it still puts out its leaves and acorns, but its center, hidden deep within the curtain of green, remains empty and splintered where it hasn't been grotesquely scarred over. We are happy the tree hasn't died, and from the proper angle we can look on it and suppose that it is the same tree as it ever was, but it is not and never will be.

The truth was often broken, shards of glass embedded into skin. There they would remain until the wounds scarred over, leaving lumps that, while they would never truly go away, would become less noticeable with time.

At that moment with the dolphins gliding about her, Annie realized that the sea could be dark and cold and unforgiving but could also be full of light and warmth and hope. And was life any different? Yes she had almost died three times-once as a girl, twice as a woman. And those scars would never truly leave her. But a scar shows that a wound as mostly healed, and if something has mostly healed, why did she need to live in fear of it?

1.209.600 seconds , he cured the wounds , he healed the scars that everyone left inside of me. He did everything to make me smile; Then he had to leave. But what will happen if those seconds were more than 1.209.600,?”

We call that real problem the SHARD OF GLASS. It's a psychological wound that has been festering beneath the surface of your hero for a long time. The skin has grown over it, leaving behind an unsightly scar that causes your hero to act in the way they act and make the mistakes that they do (flaws!). You, as the author and creator of this world, have to decide how this shard of glass got there. Why is your hero so flawed? What happens to them to make them the way they are?

On the day Charles Barrett died, James MacNally closed the door to his study, sat down in his chair, and laid his head on the thick edge of his desk so he could weep. His wife, Nan, did not knock to be let in, though his rough, heavy sobs hit her like stones. She knew James’s own death would wring the same sounds from her, if he went first and left her adrift in the world, unmoored. Nan knew, full well, that life was a series of bereavements and each stole from her one load-bearing beam, one bone. Nan almost always believed, as her father had, that even deep wounds could be repaired, that God healed all parts of us like skin: no matter how sharp the cut, it would someday knit itself back together and leave only a scar.

Trust is a fragile glass, easily shattered by the weight of betrayal, leaving fragments of broken promises in its wake. The pain of betrayal cuts deeper than any sword, leaving behind scars that serve as a constant reminder of the wounds inflicted

girls were subjected to both clito-ridectomy—the excision of the clitoris—and infibulation—the cutting away of the labia and the sealing of the wound to leave only a tiny opening for urination and menstruation. If the malnourished little girls didn’t bleed to death from the procedure itself, they often died from resulting infections or debilitating anemia. In others, scar tissue trapped urine or menstrual fluid, causing pelvic infections. Women with scar-constricted birth canals suffered dangerous and agonizing childbirth. Sometimes

It never stops hurting, the big losses never do, it becomes a part of your bones. It rips you apart and leaves you to figure out what to do next. It becomes a part of who you are and runs through your life like thread, coloring everything you are and do. It has informed how I choose to live, what I do, how I love. You will ache and you will hurt but you will be feeling, remembering how much love there was and how much there still is; death can never touch that. You heal and the wound closes, becoming a scar to remind you how precious things are and how well you were loved, how well you can love if you let yourself.

Then she heard tiny moaning noises coming from the direction of the object. It sounded almost human. She couldn’t leave without knowing what it was. She approached it, reached out, and lifted the branch. About as long as her hand and pink, it resembled a piece of flesh. She identified it immediately…after all, she’d seen another one just this morning. It was a penis. One side had a rounded end, bisected by a gentle indentation with a small irregular hole in the center. On the other end, it still bore its testicles in their dark red sac. If it had ever belonged to a man, the wound had disappeared completely, as Vesper could see no place where it appeared hacked off or scarred.

There seemed no sign of common bodily illness about him, nor of the recovery from any. He looked like a man cut away from the stake, when the fire has overrunningly wasted all the limbs without consuming them, or taking away one particle from their compacted aged robustness. His whole high, broad form, seemed made of solid bronze, and shaped in an unalterable mould, like Cellini’s cast Perseus. Threading its way out from among his grey hairs, and continuing right down one side of his tawny scorched face and neck, till it disappeared in his clothing, you saw a slender rod-like mark, lividly whitish. It resembled that perpendicular seam sometimes made in the straight, lofty trunk of a great tree, when the upper lightning tearingly darts down it, and without wrenching a single twig, peels and grooves out the bark from top to bottom ere running off into the soil, leaving the tree still greenly alive, but branded. Whether that mark was born with him, or whether it was the scar left by some desperate wound, no one could certainly say.

It’s often the wounds caused by our families that cut the deepest and leave the most apparent scars, but God can absolutely heal those wounds. Your family history doesn’t have to be your future. Ask Him to stop the dysfunction and create a new legacy, and then watch what He does. He is the road map that will guide you into a new land of promise and freedom if you trust Him enough to walk that path in obedience.

Liberation does not bring unadulterated joy. When a tyrant falls, when an occupying army is ousted, when an oppressive regime gives way to a free and democratic order, a new day does not dawn. Triumphant speeches by new leaders may distract attention from the problems facing the liberated country; victory parades or spontaneous celebrations in the streets for a time may obscure deep divisions within the newly free society. But any occupation leaves scars on a nation’s psyche. The complicity of some with the former rulers, the persecution of others at the hands of their fellow citizens, courageous acts of resistance offset by the passivity of the majority of the population—only by facing these shameful features of its subjugation can the liberated nation achieve harmony, heal its wounds, and regain legitimacy in the eyes of the outside world.

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.

UNDERBELLY Wouldbelove, do not think of me as a whetstone until you hear the whole story: In it, I’m not the hero, but I’m not the villain either so let’s say, in the story, I was human and made of human-things: fear and hands, underbelly and blade. Let me say it plain: I loved someone and I failed at it. Let me say it another way: I like to call myself wound but I will answer to knife. Sometimes I think we have the same name, Notquitelove. I want to be soft, to say here is my underbelly and I want you to hold the knife, but I don’t know what I want you to do: plunge or mercy. I deserve both. I want to hold and be held. Let me say it again, Possiblelove: I’m not sure you should. The truth is: If you don’t, I won’t die of want or lonely, just time. And not now, not even soon. But that’s how every story ends eventually. Here is how one might start: Before. The truth? I’m not a liar but I close my eyes a lot, Couldbelove. Before, I let a blade slide itself sharp against me. Look at where I once bloomed red and pulsing. A keloid history. I have not forgotten the knife or that I loved it or what it was like before: my unscarred body visits me in dreams and photographs. Maybelove, I barely recognize it without the armor of its scars. I am trying to tell the truth: the dreams are how I haunt myself. Maybe I’m not telling the whole story: I loved someone and now I don’t. I can’t promise to leave you unscarred. The truth: I am a map of every blade I ever held. This is not a dream. Look at us now: all grit and density. What, Wouldbelove do you know of knives? Do you think you are a soft thing? I don’t. Maybe the truth is: Both. Blade and guard. My truth is: blade. My hands on the blade; my hands, the blade; my hands carving and re-carving every overzealous fibrous memory. The truth is: I want to hold your hands because they are like mine. Holding a knife by the blade and sharpening it. In your dreams, how much invitation to pierce are you? Perhapslove, the truth is: I am afraid we are both knives, both stones, both scarred. Or we will be. The truth is: I have made fire before: stone against stone. Mightbelove, I have sharpened this knife before: blade against blade. I have hurt and hungered before: flesh against flesh. I won’t make a dull promise.

I could love you all night, Raven,” he murmured enticingly against her throat. His hands moved over her body, leaving fire in their wake. “I want to love you all night.” “Isn’t that the point? It’s dawn.” Her hands had a mind of their own, finding every defined muscle with her fingertips, stroking across his hard male form, seeking her own exploration. “Then I will spend the day making love to you.” He whispered the words against her mouth, bent closer to nibble at the corners of her lower lip. “I need you with me, Raven. You chase away the shadows and lighten the terrible load that threatens to drown me.” She skimmed her fingertips across the hard edges of his mouth. “Is this possession, or is it love?” She dipped her head to press her mouth to the hollow of his sternum, to slide her tongue over the ultrasensitive skin above his heart. There was no mark, no scar, but the sweep of her tongue followed the exact line of his earlier wound, where he had forced her to accept his life’s blood. She was merged with him, reading his mind, his erotic fantasies, wanting to bring them to life. His gut clenched hotly, his body responding with fierce aggression. Raven smiled at the feel of his hard length burning against her skin. She had no inhibitions when she lay with him, only a fierce desire to burn with him. “Answer me, Mikhail--the truth.” Her fingertips brushed his velvet tip, fingers curled around the heavy thickness of him sending hunger raging through his body. She was playing with fire, but he didn’t have the strength to stop her; he didn’t want to stop her. His hands curled in her damp hair, two tight fists. “Both,” he managed to gasp.

Poet's Note: Kindly do not use my poem without giving me due credit. Do not use bits and pieces to suit your agenda of Kashmir whatever it may be. I, Srividya Srinivasan as the creator of this poem own the right to what I have chosen to feel about the issue and have represented all sides to a complex problem that involves people. I do not believe in war or violence of any kind and this is my compassionate side speaking from all angles to human beings thinking they own only their side to the story. THIS POEM IS THE ORIGINAL WORK OF SRIVIDYA SRINIVASAN and any misuse by you shall be considered as a violation of my copyrights and legally actionable. This poem is dedicated to all those who have suffered in Kashmir and through Kashmir and to not be sliced and interpreted to each one's convenience. ---------------------------- Weep softly O mother, the walls have ears you know... The streets are awash o mother! I cannot go searching for him anymore. The streets are awash o mother with blood and tears, pellets and screams. that silently remain locked in the air, while they seal our soulless dreams. The guns are out, O mother, while our boys go armed with stones, I cannot go looking for him O mother, I have no courage to face what I will find. For, I need to tend to this little one beside, with bound eyes that see no more. ----- Weep for the home we lost O mother, Weep for the valley we left behind, the hills that once bore our names, where shoulder to shoulder, we walked the vales, proud of our heritage. Hunted out of our very homes, flying like thieves in the night, abandoning it all, fearful for the lives of our men, fearful of our being raped, our children killed, Kafirs they called us O mother, they marked our homes to kill. We now haunt the streets of other cities, refugees in a country we call our own, belonging nowhere, feeling homeless without the land we once called home. ------------- Weep loudly O mother, for the nation hears our pain. As the fresh flag moulds his cold body, I know his sacrifice was not in vain. We need to put our chins up, O mother and face this moment with pride. For blood is blood, and pain is pain, and death is final, The false story we must tell ourselves is that we are always the right side, and forget the pain we inflict on the other side. Until it all stops, it must go on, the dry tears on either side, Every war and battle is within and without, and must claim its wounds and leave its scars, And, if we need to go on O mother, it matters we feel we are on the right side. We need to tell ourselves we are always the right sight... We need to repeat it a million times, We are always the right side... For god forbid, what if we were not? --- Request you to read the full poem on my website.

You have to leave, " Severus repeats, trying to push the wolf away and only meeting firm shoulder muscles littered with scars. Lupin has lost a cardigan. And a shirt. Severus does not remember removing them but he is currently holding the sleeve of a ripped shirt which he drops, dazedly, lowering his lips to brush against a large, puckered wound across his bicep. Terrible idea. Best fucking idea I have ever had. "Then tell me to," Lupin has a fist full of Severus' hair and yanks his face up. Lupin's pupils are blown wide, dark moons with a ring of amber. There is no regret there. And tomorrow he shall be gone. "I will." Severus pushes the half naked wolf away and brushes past him, grabbing his wrist at the last minute to pull him along to the bedroom. Lupin's thin torso is robed in wounds and marks like an ancient tree with names carved into the bark. Cartography of scars. I shall map every single fucking one. "Later.

BloodClan!” Princess echoed, and a shiver passed through her. “Firestar, you’re in danger, aren’t you?” Firestar nodded, suddenly unwilling to treat her like a soft kittypet who couldn’t cope with the truth. “Yes,” he replied. “BloodClan has given us three days to get out of the forest. We don’t intend to leave, so that means we have to fight them.” Princess went on giving him that long, thoughtful look. The tip of her tail swept around and touched a scar on his flank, an old wound from a battle so long ago that he had forgotten which one it was. Firestar had a sudden vision of how he must appear to her: gaunt and ragged in spite of his lean muscles, his battle-marked pelt a constant reminder of the harshness of his forest life. “I know you’ll do your best,” she mewed quietly. “The Clan couldn’t have a better leader.” “I hope you’re right,” Firestar meowed. “This is the worst threat to the Clan that we’ve ever had to face.” “And you’ll come through it; I know you will.” Princess rasped her tongue over his ear and pressed close against him. Firestar smelled her fear-scent, but she stayed calm, and her gentle features were unusually serious. “Come back safely, Firestar,” she whispered. “Please.

The Funeral of Sarpedon Zeus is heavy with grief. Sarpedon is dead at Patroclus’ hands and, right now, the son of Menoetius and his Achaeans are setting out to steal the corpse and desecrate it. But Zeus will not allow it. He had left his beloved child alone and now he’s lost – for such the Law demanded. But at least he will honour him in death. Behold: he sends Phoebus down to the field with orders to care for the body. Phoebus lifts the hero’s corpse with reverence and pity, and bears him to the river. He washes away the blood and dust and closes the wounds, careful not to leave a scar; he pours balm of ambrosia over the body and clothes him in resplendent Olympian robes. He blanches the skin and with a comb of pearl straightens the raven-black hair. He lays him out, arranging the lovely limbs. The youth seems a king, a charioteer, twenty-five or twenty-six years old – relishing his moment of victory, with the swiftest stallions, upon a golden chariot in a grand competition. Phoebus, completing his assignment, calls on his two siblings, Sleep and Death, commanding them to carry the body to Lycia, land of riches. So the two brothers, Sleep and Death, set out on foot to transport the body to Lycia, land of riches. And at the door of the king’s palace they hand over the glorious body and return to their affairs. As they receive him into the palace they begin laments and tributes, processions and libations flowing from sacred vessels and everything that befits such a sad funeral; then skilled craftsmen from the city and artists well known for their work in marble arrive to fashion the tomb and the stele.

to keep hold of. I hold onto it, ignoring the sting of the sharp edges cutting into my hand. Raise it between Viper and I. Dig it into the top of his chest and shoulder and cut. Viper pulls away from me, a line of bloody spit trailing between our lips and then breaking and falling between us. Then he looks to see what I’ve done. The cut isn’t deep. It’s actually rather shallow. Not going to even leave a mark once it’s said and done. But you wouldn’t know it based on the way blood gushes forth from it. I stick out my tongue. Seeming to know what I’m getting at, Viper removes his arm from where it’s holding me down and allows me to lean up and forward to clean the wound I inflicted. By now, the blood has begun to make a trail down his chest. So I catch it mid-chest on my tongue. Then lick my way back up to the still bleeding wound. I smear my lips against it, making a mess of blood in the area where the cut is. Pull away. Plant kisses on the wound while it continues to bleed. His entire body shudders, and he hits the wall next to my head, and I can’t help but preen at how much that tells me he likes it. Can’t help but moan as my pussy aches in painful wanting of his cock. Finally, I begin to clean the wound with my tongue. Licking the blood away until the bleeding has stopped, and there’s nothing there but a thin line of cut skin. At some point without my notice, Viper managed to take the sharp piece of glass out my bloody hand. I incorrectly assume he’s going to give me a cut of his own. Instead, he points the glass to his own chest. Hovers it above a scar. The remnant from where I shot him all those years ago. Then, without hesitation, he makes a slash

At night in the tent, he leaves the flaps open, to feel the fire outside, to hear Anthony in the trailer, to see her better. She asks him to lie on his stomach, and he does, though he can't see her, while she runs her bare breasts over his disfigured back, her nipples hardening into his scars. You feel that? she whispers. Oh, he does. He still feels it. She kisses him from the top of his head downward, from his buzz-cut scalp, his shoulder blades, his wounds. Inch by inch she cries over him and kisses her own salt away, murmuring into him, why did you have to keep running? Look what they did to you. Why didn't you just stay put? Why couldn't you feel I was coming for you? You thought I was dead, he says. You thought I had been killed and pushed through the ice in Lake Ladoga. And what really happened was, I was a Soviet man left in a Soviet prison. Wasn't I dead? He is fairly certain he is alive now, and while Tatiana lies on top of his back and cries, he remembers being caught by the dogs a kilometer from Oranienburg and held in place by the Alsatians until Karolich arived, and being flogged in Sachsenhausen's main square and then chained and tattooed publicly with the 25-point star to remind him of his time for Stalin, and now she lies on his back, kissing the scars he received when he tried to escape to make his way back to her so she could kiss him. As he drives across Texas, Alexander remembers himself in Germany lying in the bloody straw after being beaten and dreaming of her kissing him, and these dreams morph with the memories of last night, and suddenly she is kissing not the scars but the raw oozing wounds, and he is in agony for she is crying and the brine of her tears is eating away the meat of his flesh, and he is begging her to stop because he can't take it anymore. Kiss something else, he pleads. Anything else. He's had enough of himself. He's sick of himself. She is tainted not just with the Gulag. She is tainted with his whole life. Does it hurt when I touch them? He has to lie. Every kiss she plants on his wounds stirs a sense memory of how he got them. He wanted her to touch him, and this is what he gets. But if he tells her the truth, she will stop. So he lied. No, he says.

Dear me, I am happy the way you have turned out. I am happy the way you have closed in all the broken parts of your self and made them look like waves cutting across the edges of a shore that seems so distant yet alive. I am happy the way you screamed at every gust and almost fell back with choked tears and yet walked on while your mind told you otherwise. I am happy the way you caressed the numb tears of your heart and poured it out unashamedly for they made you so much more than just a piece of Earth. I am happy the way you believed in Love even when your love left you empty with scars and wounds that are yet unhealed. I am happy the way you left your wounds untouched for you knew the value of Life and the reason to walk on this pit of fire. I am happy the way you learnt to sprinkle rays from your ashes and yet remain unabsorbed in the chained hollows of your once broken soul. I am happy the way you tried to listen to your heart's cry for that led you to a paradise of a world lulled by His Mercy and Love. I am happy the way you chose to rise from your corpse and know that Life means love and light not only for your self but for everyone around. I am happy that you finally realized that your life is complete within itself and you are perfect beyond all your imperfections. I am happy that you found your calling in the horizon of smiles that you leave behind each time you cross path with a fellow Traveller of this voyage called Life. I am happy that in your solitude you found the company of your best friend that lies within. I am happy that even in the night you shine bright with the sun of your soul that knows no bound and trusts no fear. I am happy that you keep trying and pushing off all that puts you behind and never cease to wonder at the marvel of Life. I am happy that you never stopped to gaze at what you lost but stayed amazed at what you gained. I am happy that you keep stumbling through Life, waiting for the light that runs through an endless tunnel of hope, counting through the ever falling leaf of a grey rose that murmurs through an unending story of Hope and Faith. I am happy that you are all that you have become. And I am happy the way you have turned out. - A flicker, that lies inside of you.

Hagrid added in a whisper to Harry, “but he’ll have a harder time frightenin’ you, an’ we’ve gotta get this done.” So Harry set off into the heart of the forest with Malfoy and Fang. They walked for nearly half an hour, deeper and deeper into the forest, until the path became almost impossible to follow because the trees were so thick. Harry thought the blood seemed to be getting thicker. There were splashes on the roots of a tree, as though the poor creature had been thrashing around in pain close by. Harry could see a clearing ahead, through the tangled branches of an ancient oak. “Look —” he murmured, holding out his arm to stop Malfoy. Something bright white was gleaming on the ground. They inched closer. It was the unicorn all right, and it was dead. Harry had never seen anything so beautiful and sad. Its long, slender legs were stuck out at odd angles where it had fallen and its mane was spread pearly-white on the dark leaves. Harry had taken one step toward it when a slithering sound made him freeze where he stood. A bush on the edge of the clearing quivered. . . . Then, out of the shadows, a hooded figure came crawling across the ground like some stalking beast. Harry, Malfoy, and Fang stood transfixed. The cloaked figure reached the unicorn, lowered its head over the wound in the animal’s side, and began to drink its blood. “AAAAAAAAAAARGH!” Malfoy let out a terrible scream and bolted — so did Fang. The hooded figure raised its head and looked right at Harry — unicorn blood was dribbling down its front. It got to its feet and came swiftly toward Harry — he couldn’t move for fear. Then a pain like he’d never felt before pierced his head; it was as though his scar were on fire. Half blinded, he staggered backward. He heard hooves behind him, galloping, and something jumped clean over Harry, charging at the figure. The pain in Harry’s head was so bad he fell to his knees. It took a minute or two to pass. When he looked up, the figure had gone. A centaur was standing over him, not Ronan or Bane; this one looked younger; he had white-blond hair and a palomino body. “Are you all right?” said the centaur, pulling

When a wound doesn’t mend on its own, one of two things will happen: it can either remain raw or, more commonly, be replaced by a thick layer of scar tissue. As an open sore, it is an ongoing source of pain in a place where we can be hurt over and over again by even the slightest stimulus. It compels us to be ever vigilant - always nursing our wounds, as it were - and leaves us limited in our capacity to move flexibly and act confidently lest we be harmed again. The scar is preferable, providing protection, and holding tissues together, but it has its drawbacks: it is tight, hard, inflexible, unable to grow, a zone of numbness. The original healthy, alive flash, is not regenerated.

A Garden Epitaph by Stewart Stafford From a verdant birth, Two roses entwined together, A union withered from the earth, Root quest in envenomed weather. Green fingers pruned with ill will, Each barb taken to wounded hearts, Cut natures freed of earthly swill, Two crimson blooms, beyond scars. Master gardener, just hear me, If you see devotion, leave it be, In silent witness, wonders see, Lest you hasten obsequies. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

Time heals all wounds, but tends to leave a scar.

I was left with a scar. I think telling stories is a way of putting a scar into words. Since not all blows or falls leave marks, the words are there, ready to be put together in different ways, anywhere, anytime, in response to any fall, however serious or slight.

be grateful that time will heal the wounds but leave the scars. how else will you remember all that you've survived?

Leave me,” he groaned in pain. “Run.”
His face paled, blood dribbling between his lips as he coughed. I’d seen death on people’s faces more times than I could count. Death had a way of revealing people’s true natures. Some people begged, some threatened, some tried to bargain. And this idiot I didn’t even know was dying and still trying to help me. I hated him for it.
 He started trying to talk again, grabbing at my hands. 
 “Shut up, dumbass,” I hissed at him, pressing harder at his wound. 
 He cried out in pain, but his cry cut off as the familiar warmth spread from my chest down my arms and into his stomach. The bullet had gone clean through his gut. Normally a death wound, but not tonight. I could feel his body mending beneath my fingers, all the muscles and organs knitting themselves back together. His hand curled over the top of one of mine, squeezing gently, and I glanced up to see his eyes full of awe. The wound closed shut, leaving what I knew would be a fresh pink scar, and all the warmth left me.

It leaves you cold, like a void has opened up deep inside you and drawn in all the color and beauty of the world into it. And it chafes, like an itch in a place you can't reach. You replay the moment again and again in your mind, wondering if you could have changed the outcome somehow. Eventually, like any wound, it hardens and becomes an ugly scar. An enduring part of you that still aches, especially on cold days.

A sip of life I am a strange one unlike any other ever born helping out while i need help hearing the cries of many crying of their scratches and scars while i keep quiet listening with wide open wounds on the inside being there for people, yet none here when i need them the most nowhere to be smelled nowhere to be heard I'm everywhere for them none anywhere for me I'm doing all for them yet they can't even lift a finger for me I am a strange one like no one ever seen hoping to be cared for the day i die while living none is showing any while leaving this earth bit by bit you failed to give me flowers please fail also when i die let my grave be clean like my life was clean without a spot of care without any stain of help without flowers of love just a breathing fellow, used when in need I am a strange one

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.

A mother who prioritizes her own desires and wealth over the needs and feelings of her children, neglecting her duties and responsibilities to nurture and support them, inflicts deep wounds and trauma. Her absence and disregard can lead to a lifetime of pain, isolation, and loneliness for her children, causing them to make harmful choices and struggle with relationship failures. The consequences of her selfishness can be devastating, leaving scars that may never fully heal.

And maybe I’m doing this just to humiliate him, but deep down I want to know if being hurt by someone who hates you makes cleaner, sharper wounds than the hideous scars love leaves behind.

No! Don’t touch me. I can’t control it.” “Let me help him,” Lady Amber said quietly. Two hesitant steps brought her to where I lay on the floor. I pulled my arms in tight, hiding my bare hand under my vest. “No. You of all people must not touch me!” She had crouched gracefully beside me, but as he hunkered back in his heels, he was my Fool and not Amber at all. There was immense sorrow in his voice as he said, “Did you think I would take from you the healing that you did not wish to give me, Fitz?” The room was spinning and I was too exhausted to hold anything back from him. “If you touch me, I fear the Skill will rip through me like a sword through flesh. If it can, it will give you back your sight. Regardless of the cost to me. And I believe the cost of restoring your sight will be that I lose mine.” The change in his face was startling. Pale as he was, he went whiter until he might have been carved from ice. Emotion tautened the skin of his face, revealing the bones that frames his visage. Scars that had faded stood out like cracks in fine pottery. I tried to focus my gaze on him, but he seemed to move with the room. I felt so nauseous and so weak, and I hated the secret I had to share with him. But there was no hiding it any longer. “Fool, we are too close. For every hurt I removed from your flesh, my body assumed the wound. Not as virulently as the injuries you carried, but when I healed my knife-stabs in your belly I felt them in mine the next day. When I closed the sores in your back, they opened in mine.” “I saw those wounds!” Perseverance gasped. “I thought you’d been attacked. Stabbed in the back.” I did not pause for his words. “When I healed the bones around your eye sockets, mine swelled and blackened the next day. If you touch me Fool—” “I won’t!” he exclaimed. He shot to his feet and staggered blindly away from me. “Get out of here. All three of you! Leave now. Fitz and I must speak privately. No, Spark, I will be fine. I can tend myself. Please go. Now.” They retreated, but not swiftly. They went in a bunch, with many backward glances. Spark had taken Per’s hand, and when they looked back it was with the faces of woeful children. Lant went last, and his expression was set in a Farseer stare so like his father’s that no one could have mistaken his bloodlines. “My chamber,” he said to them as he shut the door behind them, and I knew he would try to keep them safe. I hoped there was no real danger. But I also feared that General Rapskal was not finished with us. “Explain,” the Fool said flatly. I gathered myself up from the floor. It was far harder than it should have been. I rolled to my belly, drew my knees up under me until I was on all fours, and then staggered upright. I caught myself on the table’s edge and moved around it until I could reach a chair. My inadvertent healing of first Lant and then Per had extracted the last of my strength. Seated, I dragged in a breath. It was so difficult to keep my head upright. “I can’t explain what I don’t understand. It’s never happened with any other Skill-healing I’ve witnessed. Only between you and me. Whatever injury I take from you appears on me.

Where there are wounds, ties of blood form bridges of scar tissue, leaving later generations the option and delight of clambering over the rough spots to find the welcome of family they recognize in a world teeming with strangers.

Nykyrian flinched as she started tugging at his glove. He balled his hand into a fist. “Don’t. I’ll take them off later.” But she didn’t listen. Instead, she uncurled his fingers one by one. “I want to see.” He ground his teeth as he forced himself to endure this. It’d been almost twenty years since he last touched a woman. Twenty long, hard years. Please don’t reject me. He held his breath, waiting for her to cringe as she uncovered his scarred hands and laid them bare. His hands were hideous and no woman wanted him to touch her once she saw them. Not that he blamed them for that. He couldn’t stand to look at his hands either. It was why he always wore gloves. But for her curiosity, he endured this humiliation. Kiara forced herself not to react as she saw what had been done to him. Each fingernail had been torn out, leaving behind a twisted nail bed that looked as if someone had fused or cauterized it to keep the nail from growing back. The two middle fingers were twisted from all the injuries that had been done to them and his entire hand was scarred from wounds she could only guess at. Meeting his gaze, she brought his hand to her lips and kissed each scar. Nykyrian shook as she did what no one ever had. And when she kissed his palm … He was lost to her now. He would never again have any power over her. She owned a part of him that he hadn’t even known he possessed any longer. His bloody heart.

Types of Wounds 1. Contusion: A bruise. 2. Abrasion: A wound in which one or more layers of skin are partially or completely scraped away. 3. Laceration: A cut through the skin. A laceration produced by a sharp object, such as a knife, generally produces little damage to the surrounding skin. Lacerations from a blunt injury, however, typically result in a tearing or bursting of the skin, causing ragged wound edges or star-shaped patterns. Because damage to adjacent skin occurs, these wounds heal more slowly, result in larger scars, and are more prone to infection. 4. Avulsion: A partial amputation that leaves a “flap” of body tissue attached by skin, muscle, or tendon. 5. Amputation: A complete separation of a body part, such as an ear, finger, or foot, from the rest of the body. 6. Puncture: A wound that occurs when an object, such as a thorn, fang, or knife, penetrates the body. These wounds may introduce bacteria into deep tissues and are very difficult to clean adequately. As a result, they are particularly prone to infection. 7. Impaled object: A puncture wound with the puncturing object still stuck in. 8. Bite wound: A puncture wound caused by a bite from an animal or another human. 9. Burn: Tissue injury resulting from heat, electricity (lightning), radiation (sunburn), or chemicals.

Mind your metaphors: A painful wound leaves a scar forever, but the bitter is at last washed away by the sweet.

A broken heart doesn’t heal like any other wound. It leaves long-lasting scars that make it difficult to fully use our hearts again.

Is exactly what it is. What we does in bed, it’s wonderful and I loves it, but it’s a small part of what being Clan is. We are so much more than fuckin’. Ava, I’se spent damn near every day with Blaise for the past twenty years. Maybe more. Ye knows how many times we’ve had sex?” Ava was not sure if she wanted to know the answer, but her scarred mate kept speaking. “Not a one. Not even when we was boys, and everyone tries everything. We never touches each other, because I knows what’s with us is more important than our cocks and where we stick ‘em. I’se never fucked any of me Clanmates, yet they is everything in me life. I lives for them, I dies for them. And ye. One time I was whipped was when I told Daven I wished we hadn’t Clanned him. We don’t normally get the whip for words, but that was fuckin’ cruel of me, and I deserves what I got there. And he still came and stood there and watched, and when it was over he helped carry me home and bind up me wounds.” Vaguely, Ava remembered him telling her something about that before, but the gritty reality had not sunk in. “But this is different,” she begged. “I’m not Daven. This is about my shame, and I don’t want you to see it.” “But see it we will. And we will still love ye and we will still carry ye home and we will bind your wounds and carry ye to the privy and do whatever the fuck we need to for ye until you’re well again. And we’ll do our best to make sure ye don’t head down such a path again, but if ye does, we’ll turn ye round and bring ye back. And if ye heads down that path ten more times we goes after ye ten more times and we never leaves ye alone because that is Clan and that is who we are.

But running from emotional pain is never a good idea, as it only leaves us damaged of soul and hindered in our ability to fulfill our purpose. We have to turn and face our torturous seasons and the scars they try to leave on our hearts.

What happened?” Harper swallowed, unsure what to tell his daughter. What had Cat told her? “I was shot a couple of weeks ago.” Her eyes flashed to his as if to see if he were telling the truth. “Seriously?” He nodded. “But I’m okay. No big deal,” he assured her. She shook her head, stepping closer. Her hand lifted as if she wanted to touch the wound but she stopped. “Does it still hurt?” “Not much. I’m kind of used to it.” Crossing her arms, she looked up at him, considering. “Mom told me you had been hurt but she didn’t say how or why. I thought she was lying to me again.” Harper winced. “She wasn’t lying. I was shot in the chest and I was hit by glass when my scope was hit. I lost the vision in my right eye.” He rubbed at the scars on his face a little self-consciously. She blinked. “Isn’t that your shooting eye?” Harper looked at her, considering. Damn, she was sharp. “Yes, it is. I’m going to have to teach myself to shoot again. I don’t really shoot much at work, but it’s a skill I need to keep.” Dillon shook her head again, her expression forlorn. “Where do you work now? Mom didn’t know. And we haven’t heard from you in so long. It was like you disappeared off the earth. And now you’re hurt.” Tears filled her eyes again and one slipped down her cheek. She swiped it away angrily, but more began to follow. “Oh, honey.” Harper dared to take a step toward her, heartened when she didn’t bolt. “I’m okay. I really am. And I’m sorry I haven’t talked to you. Believe it or not I’ve missed you too—I just didn’t feel like I could be at home with you for a while. Not because of anything you did, but because of things that were going on in my head. I had to get them straightened out so that I could be with you guys.” Dillon didn’t look like she believed him, but at least she was listening. “I swear to you I wanted to come home, but I couldn’t risk you guys. In my old job with the SEALs I had to go to war in bad places.” “Afghanistan?” He stopped, surprised. But then, why was he surprised? Dillon was damn smart. “Yes. I was there for a good while. And a bunch of other places. And when you get used to doing something, like fighting in a war, it’s hard to change when you come home. I had problems getting used to not fighting. Do you understand?” She nodded, arms still wrapped around herself. “So rather than run the chance of maybe waking up one night and hurting you guys I moved out. It wasn’t because your mom and I had problems, it wasn’t because I didn’t love you and it definitely wasn’t because of anything you kids did. It was just me. Fighting myself in my head. And I worried that if I talked to you guys I wouldn’t be able to stay away.” Tears were still dripping down her cheeks. Harper dared to reach out and tuck a mussed strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “But I promise you I won’t leave you again. Not like this. And I promise I will always talk to you. Okay?” She nodded and took a step forward, as if seeking reassurance. Harper opened his arms for a hug and she folded into him, sobbing. “Oh, baby girl, I love you so much. I’m sorry I hurt you but I really did think it would be better if I just disappeared.” He ran his hands down her long hair and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Do you think you can forgive me? I really miss talking to you.” She nodded her head against him and wrapped her arms around him to squeeze, then pulled back with a gasp. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Harper smiled. “Nope. Not enough to notice.” He pulled her back for another hug and another kiss on top of her head. “Wanna grab some breakfast?” Dillon nodded and they headed to the kitchen, his arm around her shoulders.

Today had been a day for old wounds to itch, but scratching would only leave a scar

May you remember that every wound heals even when it leaves behind a scar. The story behind it can evolve. May you have the power to alter the story told for you, into one you always wanted. This is our now.

As the great German playwright Bertolt Brecht (1898–1956) put it, kisses leave no traces but wounds leave scars.

A story can hurt you. A good story can wound, maim, and scar. A good story will leave you questioning what you believe to be right or wrong for the sake of pseudo-pleasure fulfilled by some neurons shooting off sparks in your brain. A good story will tear your soul out from your chest and keep you from moving on until you find another that can take its place.

Forgiveness, at best, is a bandage to cover wounds. Words leave emotional scars.

Fevers were the worst part of healing, but if he made it through, the wound would heal eventually. The pain would dull to a sore ache, and then it would fade to memory, leaving only a scar.