When she touched him, she could feel his scars burning beneath the surface of his skin. At night, when they laid in bed, she would press herself against him and feel their heat inside him, engraining themselves deeper and deeper into his heart, his mind. He used to hold his naked body against hers too every night, until they both fell asleep. But now they lay at separate ends of the bed, huddled in the blankets, naked and alone. She can’t fix the cuts that never healed. And now she is scarred too. His scorching wounds burn her down like a wick of a candle, until there is nothing left but the lumps of hardened wax and the stinging smell of sulphur.
I love scars. I think scars are one of the most beautiful and revealing things someone can have on their body. Many people think scars are ugly. But they’re so interesting. I wish I had more scars that came with a badass story. But my scars are all lame. I have a scar on my finger from trying to sharpen a pencil with a knife. And then I missed. Yeah. I need cooler scars. Scars are amazing and beautiful and tell a lot about a person. If you’ve got a scar, show it. Tell people the story. If it’s lame like mine, make up a cool story. People shouldn’t hide scars. I love them.
The scar traced the right side of Alvin’s cheek. Unlike all those cavalier movie heroes he’d seen, where the white lines of battles fought in the past are brandished in a way that makes the man look like the epitome of rough and tumble adventure, Alvin’s scar was a pinched and puckered mess that pulled one eye down, and made it impossible to smile.
In certain light it appears like the curving jagged contour of a country traversing the tip of my nose and running across my lips. In the summer months, when the sun falls across it with heat, the line lightens, a drip of milk, a pale pencil drawing. I used to hide it with my hand. In shops I’d place my order through tightly pressed fingers. I wasn’t ashamed of my looks. I I just didn’t want questions.
The rusty knife flew through the air, wobbling and turning till it reached it’s final destination. The whole blade went in. Robbles the gray haired bicycle repairman looked down at his belly. Between his hands he held a watermelon with a wood handled knife sticking out, leaving no scar on the man.
she run her fingers down her face, wiping some of the tears that escaped her already swollen eyes. thinking of the day a friend have left, she held on to two words that never gave anyone any sort of comfort: time heals.
If you look closely, there are little white lines running horizontally across my left wrist.
Tiny lines.
Raised up.
I am scarred.
These lines tell of a girl who used to be – broken.
But now, I am proud to be lined like paper. For on these lines is written my story.
I am happy to be an open book.
I am scarred because I survived.
with each
piece of browning
notebook paper,
lies
a new scar.
they smother her
fingers
and
they never heal,
not really,
instead haunting her
and reminding her
of all the
words.
the words she
cannot say
and the words
that hurt
to
hear
I’ve been asked twice today about this very scar.
No one ever likes the story once I tell them; it’s pointless to retell.
Just know that it involves 2 years, a lot of memories,
And a terrible, terrible heartache.
Eddie was one of the greatest guitar players the world has ever known. His writing style mixed the lead vocals of his best friend Dave, made them a true success. Ed often looks at the scar on his left hand, vividly remembering jumping from his tree fort, landing on his hands and knees. And oh yeh, on the broken candle, unaware.
I have these scars…They reminid me that everything that I have gone through has made me a stronger person. I tend to forget, when I get down or when the going gets rough. But I am stronger
Scars. Damn you scars. They are persistent reminders of the things that we so desperately wish we could forget. We feel them and we see them even if no one else can. What’s worst is that they will never go away and we can never get away.
A scar is something that forms over a wound. For example, if you had a cut on your arm, a scar would form over it to keep it from bleeding. I have a scar on my forehead. Harry Potter has a lightning scar on his forehead.
The scar, the broken bone, the blood and tears. What happened to this young and old girl? Once so full of life and now… It’s hard to tell where this might go, but go with it and let your body flow.
it’s a semi-healed
memory
taunting you
to learn,
but
never forget.
it sits and stares at you
in the mirror
reflected
on the side of your face.
it sits
waiting,
listening,
never going away.
B/c you can move on from
whatever hurt you,
you just can’t erase it.
there was something in the water, and when I saw it I did not move away in time enough to let it pass; for there was something about that log, that beautiful piece of wood that left a memory on my skin. That is all that happens to me. These scars, these birthmarks that move from one place to the next. My life, your life. That is all we will ever have
She sliced her finger nails
with an unscrewed pencil sharpener
stamp on the blunt plastic case
the score a line of lead dust
chew on the paper thin wood fans
The hole puncher, bottom open
flung a mini snow day
into the air, floating down everyday confetti
And the yellow highlighter
steady and pointed in her hand
dyed her iris neon
She glared through a shaped space
from her cubicle
The world a sunset scene
through her stinging eyes
You left me open, puss-filled, and wounded. I used to pick at the mark you made. I wore it as a badge of honor for awhile, until it grew ugly. Then I tried to hide it. Now that it’s healed, there’s hardly any reminder left that you were here at all. But I remember.
Every scar reminds me of the pain, the hurt..the times when I couldn’t handle the constant heartbreak. Each scar I’m ashamed of, but I’m also proud of them..because it means I was strong enough to survive.
i have so many of these, little or big reminders of major events in my life (childbirth) to smaller events, like falling while running in the dark one night. each one tells a story, but it’s not one i always want to share. over time, the scars on my body present a roadmap of my history, one that leads me to the person i am today, and reminders of those who have affected me on that road.
She fled down the dingy hallway as the hulking man raced after her. “Help me!” she screamed. “Somebody! Please!” Their footsteps echoed down the corridor. She turned and to her horror she saw him about to overtake her. Her eyes widened. That face. She would never forget that scarred face and those dark, empty eyes. With one last burst of energy she threw herself around the corner as he lunged for her.
He ripped through her skin, it was time to leave. She fought and wished she’d remembered when he’d spat in her face, ranting about the house, or the kids or whatever his choice. He ripped and she tore, away from the life of forever scars.
She looked in the mirror, staring at her porcelain features without thinking about herself. She thought instead of her mother, her blonde hair wild and ferocious for the first time as she lashed out at her with the knife. Slowly, Serafina reached down towards her sleeve and pulled up the robe, looking at the dark scars that sat there. One, the wedding rune she had taken with Tyler. Two, the mental block rune she had written to block her thoughts from invasion. And three, the scar of a knife as it raked across her arm.
When she touched him, she could feel his scars burning beneath the surface of his skin. At night, when they laid in bed, she would press herself against him and feel their heat inside him, engraining themselves deeper and deeper into his heart, his mind. He used to hold his naked body against hers too every night, until they both fell asleep. But now they lay at separate ends of the bed, huddled in the blankets, naked and alone. She can’t fix the cuts that never healed. And now she is scarred too. His scorching wounds burn her down like a wick of a candle, until there is nothing left but the lumps of hardened wax and the stinging smell of sulphur.
I love scars. I think scars are one of the most beautiful and revealing things someone can have on their body. Many people think scars are ugly. But they’re so interesting. I wish I had more scars that came with a badass story. But my scars are all lame. I have a scar on my finger from trying to sharpen a pencil with a knife. And then I missed. Yeah. I need cooler scars. Scars are amazing and beautiful and tell a lot about a person. If you’ve got a scar, show it. Tell people the story. If it’s lame like mine, make up a cool story. People shouldn’t hide scars. I love them.
The scar traced the right side of Alvin’s cheek. Unlike all those cavalier movie heroes he’d seen, where the white lines of battles fought in the past are brandished in a way that makes the man look like the epitome of rough and tumble adventure, Alvin’s scar was a pinched and puckered mess that pulled one eye down, and made it impossible to smile.
In certain light it appears like the curving jagged contour of a country traversing the tip of my nose and running across my lips. In the summer months, when the sun falls across it with heat, the line lightens, a drip of milk, a pale pencil drawing. I used to hide it with my hand. In shops I’d place my order through tightly pressed fingers. I wasn’t ashamed of my looks. I I just didn’t want questions.
scar a car rac
The rusty knife flew through the air, wobbling and turning till it reached it’s final destination. The whole blade went in. Robbles the gray haired bicycle repairman looked down at his belly. Between his hands he held a watermelon with a wood handled knife sticking out, leaving no scar on the man.
she run her fingers down her face, wiping some of the tears that escaped her already swollen eyes. thinking of the day a friend have left, she held on to two words that never gave anyone any sort of comfort: time heals.
she cried herself to sleep again.
If you look closely, there are little white lines running horizontally across my left wrist.
Tiny lines.
Raised up.
I am scarred.
These lines tell of a girl who used to be – broken.
But now, I am proud to be lined like paper. For on these lines is written my story.
I am happy to be an open book.
I am scarred because I survived.
with each
piece of browning
notebook paper,
lies
a new scar.
they smother her
fingers
and
they never heal,
not really,
instead haunting her
and reminding her
of all the
words.
the words she
cannot say
and the words
that hurt
to
hear
I’ve been asked twice today about this very scar.
No one ever likes the story once I tell them; it’s pointless to retell.
Just know that it involves 2 years, a lot of memories,
And a terrible, terrible heartache.
Eddie was one of the greatest guitar players the world has ever known. His writing style mixed the lead vocals of his best friend Dave, made them a true success. Ed often looks at the scar on his left hand, vividly remembering jumping from his tree fort, landing on his hands and knees. And oh yeh, on the broken candle, unaware.
I have these scars…They reminid me that everything that I have gone through has made me a stronger person. I tend to forget, when I get down or when the going gets rough. But I am stronger
Scars. Damn you scars. They are persistent reminders of the things that we so desperately wish we could forget. We feel them and we see them even if no one else can. What’s worst is that they will never go away and we can never get away.
A scar is something that forms over a wound. For example, if you had a cut on your arm, a scar would form over it to keep it from bleeding. I have a scar on my forehead. Harry Potter has a lightning scar on his forehead.
The scar, the broken bone, the blood and tears. What happened to this young and old girl? Once so full of life and now… It’s hard to tell where this might go, but go with it and let your body flow.
it’s a semi-healed
memory
taunting you
to learn,
but
never forget.
it sits and stares at you
in the mirror
reflected
on the side of your face.
it sits
waiting,
listening,
never going away.
B/c you can move on from
whatever hurt you,
you just can’t erase it.
there was something in the water, and when I saw it I did not move away in time enough to let it pass; for there was something about that log, that beautiful piece of wood that left a memory on my skin. That is all that happens to me. These scars, these birthmarks that move from one place to the next. My life, your life. That is all we will ever have
She sliced her finger nails
with an unscrewed pencil sharpener
stamp on the blunt plastic case
the score a line of lead dust
chew on the paper thin wood fans
The hole puncher, bottom open
flung a mini snow day
into the air, floating down everyday confetti
And the yellow highlighter
steady and pointed in her hand
dyed her iris neon
She glared through a shaped space
from her cubicle
The world a sunset scene
through her stinging eyes
You left me open, puss-filled, and wounded. I used to pick at the mark you made. I wore it as a badge of honor for awhile, until it grew ugly. Then I tried to hide it. Now that it’s healed, there’s hardly any reminder left that you were here at all. But I remember.
Every scar reminds me of the pain, the hurt..the times when I couldn’t handle the constant heartbreak. Each scar I’m ashamed of, but I’m also proud of them..because it means I was strong enough to survive.
i have so many of these, little or big reminders of major events in my life (childbirth) to smaller events, like falling while running in the dark one night. each one tells a story, but it’s not one i always want to share. over time, the scars on my body present a roadmap of my history, one that leads me to the person i am today, and reminders of those who have affected me on that road.
She fled down the dingy hallway as the hulking man raced after her. “Help me!” she screamed. “Somebody! Please!” Their footsteps echoed down the corridor. She turned and to her horror she saw him about to overtake her. Her eyes widened. That face. She would never forget that scarred face and those dark, empty eyes. With one last burst of energy she threw herself around the corner as he lunged for her.
He ripped through her skin, it was time to leave. She fought and wished she’d remembered when he’d spat in her face, ranting about the house, or the kids or whatever his choice. He ripped and she tore, away from the life of forever scars.
She looked in the mirror, staring at her porcelain features without thinking about herself. She thought instead of her mother, her blonde hair wild and ferocious for the first time as she lashed out at her with the knife. Slowly, Serafina reached down towards her sleeve and pulled up the robe, looking at the dark scars that sat there. One, the wedding rune she had taken with Tyler. Two, the mental block rune she had written to block her thoughts from invasion. And three, the scar of a knife as it raked across her arm.
Scar; can be a marking on your body or a cliif face in yorkshire. Cliff falce slashed into the land – is it a scar on the face/body of the land?