Socials
Unbroken Skin
The map of the battle is written in fading ink,
mapped across the quiet terrain of bone and breath.
There are afternoons where the light hits the floorboards just right,
and the room smells like old rain and the ghost of a storm
you were certain you would not survive.
Do not rush the mending.
A scar is not a flaw in the marble;
it is the stone remembering how it held together
when the earth split open beneath it.
It is the architecture of endurance,
built slowly, cell by quiet cell,
in the dark where no one else was watching.
Be gentle with the spaces that still ache when the weather turns.
Even the moon has her dark phases,
dragging the tide with a bruised and silver grace.
You are allowed to be both the wreckage and the architect,
both the patient and the one holding the thread.
The skin knits.
The pulse finds its steady rhythm again.
Step by quiet step, the light returns to the room,
and you find you are still here—
breathing, unbroken,
and entirely your own.
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