one long, thin scar ran down the side of her face, a dark reminder of the past, but she was still beautiful. her crystal blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair both shone in the summer sun. he watched her walking along the beach, falling deeper in love with every step.
i have a scaR at the back of my neck. shaped like a shRimp. i was nick-named shRimp foR a couple months afteR the injuRY. i told people a snake bit me and that was how i got it. but REally, its not such an inteREsting stoRY, my sisteR pushed me into a vase which shatteRed and a shaRd of glass hit my neck. i have a scaR on the Ridge of my nose. a small unnoticeable scaR. inteREstingly enough, my sisteR was also the culpRit of this scaR. this time, we weRE playing doubles in tennis. she came a little too close and whacked me in the face. ahh the woRd scaR, bRIngs back so many fREsh, bloody memoRies.
one long, thin scar ran down the side of her face, but she was still beautiful. her crystal blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair both shone in the summer sun. he watched her walking along the beach, falling deeper in love with every step.
Scar scared Simba. Simba really wasn’t sure if he should trust his uncle or not. He listened to what he said because he was his elder but little did he know, Scar was deceiving him all along.
I have a scar on my belly from chicken pox. I want to get that bio oil stuff to hopefully get rid of it. I have other scars. Not many people know about these, because they’re one of my biggest secrets, and i’m not proud of them. I bet you can guess what they’re from. Self harm and what not. Lucky i’m not like that anymore. I have a scar on my leg, from falling over a brick wall in primary school. I got four stitches.
The scar on his face leaves trails of discrimination and judgment. No one sees anything else besides the dark shaggy mane and the scar trailing from his eye down his face. If they looked past that, they might have been able to see a fierce ambition for only the best in life. That no scar or family member would ever hold him back.
I will never go back. That is what I promised myself a very long time ago. I would not care that I was leaving her. I would make a better life for myself and find her later. My mind raced as my index figure bluntly slid down the filmy white page. It was hard to see the tiny black writing underneath my nubbed finger. I had accidentally chopped the top portion of it off trying to stabb my step father in the fifth grade. The memories came fludding back as I searched under “B” for Burrows. My sister had to be listed here at Mcllelan Middle School. It is the only middle school in the small town I grew up in. “There, Samantha burrows!” Samantha was five years old when I left at sixteen, and now at twenty five I can finally take care of us. I am going to see her today after school. I am going ot take her home with me.
It was cliche and an over used idea but he had left a scar on my heart. He had broked my heart and it had shattered into a million pieces and slowly I was putting it back together again but it would never be the same. There would always be the ghost of him, the scar of his love and his betrayal on my heart and in my soul.
I have so many scars… on my knee. And mentally. More importantly, mentally. OK, I guess I’m being dramatic. It’s just that, after existing for 22 years, I feel like I’ve learned many lessons and if I could go back in time to change things and how I’ve acted, I would.
Sometimes I wonder what all of his scars mean, where they came from. Were they accidents, little marks of the years he’s passed on his life? Maybe they had a meaning and each of them had a special event associated with them, a story worth telling.
I had a scar back in the day. It was on my left arm, right below the elbow. It didn’t mean anything like these things often do, it was just there, existing. People often asked me what the scar meant or what it was from, but I could never tell them because I didn’t know and even if I did, it wouldn’t be important. Things like that never are.
Christ said “You shall not get out till you have paid the last penny”.
Katabasis; the descent, the downward, the sinking through the floor.
I must travel down and leave. I must leave every bit of self I have now behind and let it fade and rise anew, from the ashes of the grief I have spent time realizing.
Let these wounds show me the dark door of the way that is out, and I shall travel without looking back.
Saying these words cheats me of the effort I make downwards. I let them fade
Stories, waiting to be told, physically visible in the form of a mark. Can you bear to hear the cause? Are you willing to suffer with me as I tell you? Remember, once you have heard my story, you will be entwined with a part of my life forever.
I keep doing shoots for videos, and I keep gettingscars. There’s one on my ankle that I cut while running through the forest, and one from a gash in my knee after falling to the ground in a mess of post-apocalyptic garb.
It was etched into me, like the words he spoke
it might have been the way he dismissed it but I still had a little hope
it was all this hope that ended up bringing me down to the bottom anyway
when will i ever learn
when will i ever return to the way I was
to the person I used to be
proud
You showed up.
Your wrists were cut.
There was blood on my front porch.
And on my hands.
You were crying.
And i didn’t know what to do.
So I just let you cry
And I cleaned your cuts.
And you stayed for dinner.
And you smiled at everybody.
She traced the scar with the tip of her finger, remembering the searing pain of the knife as it carved its mark into her skin. She hadn’t run. Instead, she’d fought back, possessed by a power borne of fear and pain. When forced to chose between fight or flight, flight had never been an option.
Halfway through undoing his belt, I froze. My eyes had finally fallen on his stomach, onto the bright, fleshy pink scar situated there. I shouldn’t be thinking about this now; he was on top of me, and I had been finally given the chance to fulfill my burning lust. The want fell away in an instant, however, and all I could feel now was a horrid sensation of guilt mixed with extreme sorrow.
The scar on her face that was left by that man. If you can even call him a man. how can someone do this to such an inncent child. The nightmares she is having because of that night. Oh I just can’t imaigan.
This scar of mine, you take your measure of it as you stand in front of me. Your lips are the scalpel, and you so carefully draw me open again, as if I am nothing more than a science project. And when my emotions spill out, you catch them in your hands, cradle them like treasure. You let the confusion, the rage, the neediness wash over your chest, as my knees buckle into you. At least that is how I dream it. Wish it. Longing for that was how I got this scar in the first place.
Cinderella had a scar on her lip. It looked like she had a lip piercing. But she was still very pretty, despite her scar. She was scared though. She was afraid of losing her child. However, she was determined not to let her baby get taken away.
I stared at his stomach. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about it, he was on top of me, I was finally getting what I wanted from him, but the lust fell away in that second. The fleshy pink scar that ran across his stomach mocked me and my selfish wants.
It was time
but you would not come
Your body pushing from inside mine
struggling to take a first breath
but whether it was my body that resisted
or your head that would not turn
the moment of decision was
taken from us
and with a rush
of machines and people in green
I was laid out
and this scar was made
I have no worry of it
I boast it proudly
because from this scar
you emerged
and in my arms you were placed
I do not recall who cried first
but our tears mingled on your cheeks
as I cradled you in joy
Waking up in the hospital bed was a bit of a shock. How did I get here? My head is still swimming around and the seems to be cotton wool in my ears. But it’s the scar on my leg that is the most mysterious.
The lion uncle from the Lion King. He was so evil and so bad because he was close to the family. He pulled Simba into his confidence – this was the way they always did it in the old world, you see. Brother killed brother and father killed son. Those wretched battles of land and power. This was the truest one of the Disney movies. The death of the father – that is a motif. The hero’s journey.
Rome wasn’t built in a day, a month, a year. It was built with time and sweat. The steaming iron, the sweat dripping down the hands of men who toiled for hours, only armed with tools and a dream. The cuts, nicks, and burns were all just mementos of the journey. While the scars may last forever, the city prospers.
Everyone had some kind of scar. Red or black or brown. On their arms, their legs, their faces. It was a sign of the illness. A sign that they had been infected. Like a large scab that poisoned everything beneath the skin that was meant to protect us.
I was off for a cure. My scar ran from my forehead all the way down the left side of my jaw. I looked like a warrior. I felt like a doomed child.
slouching beside you in that booth, flipping your arm over, you tell me before i even see the fault: a scar across your wrist. looked like you were trying to kill yourself. a piece of glass–an accident–and i’m kissing you now in your car, snowing, waiting for my own car to warm.
scar… well
metaphorically, I don’t have very many
but physically
yes
but only small ones
I remember
a couple
years ago
I was searching for
something- I forget
what it was.
Outside, I knelt
A lightning bolt of pain
rocketed up my leg
I looked at my leg
there was a horde of
wasps
I ran away
My leg was swollen
for the next few days
from ONE bee sting
only one.
and yes, I have a scar from a wasp.
Don’t make fun of me!! ;)
i have a pretty bad scar on my left knee. i was a boy, and as boys do, i would play in the empty lot down the street. i used to pick indian paintbrushes (that’s a flower) and wrap them in a bundle for my sister. but then i got the scar.
The cannibal rolled the scar between his fingers like a CIGAR. Quick, he thought, Call the elementary phonetics reading book author! Not quite a homonym, it will need a new entry in the index! Scar-Cigar. Say it fast twice.
I have scars on my knuckles and knees
They’re white and thin and I
Don’t remember where I got all of them
I’ve never seen the marks of my family member
Who cut away at his life
Tried to bleed away the agony he felt
For so many years
My mind is hurt.
I have a lot of scars. I have scars from when I fell down, and I cried, and my mother kissed my elbow and told me there wasn’t that much blood. I have scars from when I crashed my bike, but didn’t tell anyone for fear of humiliation. And I have scars from the things he said to me, that cut deeper than any bike crash or childhood tumble could cause.
one long, thin scar ran down the side of her face, a dark reminder of the past, but she was still beautiful. her crystal blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair both shone in the summer sun. he watched her walking along the beach, falling deeper in love with every step.
i have a scaR at the back of my neck. shaped like a shRimp. i was nick-named shRimp foR a couple months afteR the injuRY. i told people a snake bit me and that was how i got it. but REally, its not such an inteREsting stoRY, my sisteR pushed me into a vase which shatteRed and a shaRd of glass hit my neck. i have a scaR on the Ridge of my nose. a small unnoticeable scaR. inteREstingly enough, my sisteR was also the culpRit of this scaR. this time, we weRE playing doubles in tennis. she came a little too close and whacked me in the face. ahh the woRd scaR, bRIngs back so many fREsh, bloody memoRies.
one long, thin scar ran down the side of her face, but she was still beautiful. her crystal blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair both shone in the summer sun. he watched her walking along the beach, falling deeper in love with every step.
Scar scared Simba. Simba really wasn’t sure if he should trust his uncle or not. He listened to what he said because he was his elder but little did he know, Scar was deceiving him all along.
I have a scar on my belly from chicken pox. I want to get that bio oil stuff to hopefully get rid of it. I have other scars. Not many people know about these, because they’re one of my biggest secrets, and i’m not proud of them. I bet you can guess what they’re from. Self harm and what not. Lucky i’m not like that anymore. I have a scar on my leg, from falling over a brick wall in primary school. I got four stitches.
Scarred by the past. Worried in the present. Healed in the future.
I had a big scar on the place were he hit me. It was really pain full. I thought I was going to die until I met you and you kissed me…
The scar on his face leaves trails of discrimination and judgment. No one sees anything else besides the dark shaggy mane and the scar trailing from his eye down his face. If they looked past that, they might have been able to see a fierce ambition for only the best in life. That no scar or family member would ever hold him back.
Or perhaps, their judgment was right all along.
Scars don’t have to physical. They can be emotional, too. And sometimes that’s not bad. Sometimes emotional scars change you for the better.
I will never go back. That is what I promised myself a very long time ago. I would not care that I was leaving her. I would make a better life for myself and find her later. My mind raced as my index figure bluntly slid down the filmy white page. It was hard to see the tiny black writing underneath my nubbed finger. I had accidentally chopped the top portion of it off trying to stabb my step father in the fifth grade. The memories came fludding back as I searched under “B” for Burrows. My sister had to be listed here at Mcllelan Middle School. It is the only middle school in the small town I grew up in. “There, Samantha burrows!” Samantha was five years old when I left at sixteen, and now at twenty five I can finally take care of us. I am going to see her today after school. I am going ot take her home with me.
It was cliche and an over used idea but he had left a scar on my heart. He had broked my heart and it had shattered into a million pieces and slowly I was putting it back together again but it would never be the same. There would always be the ghost of him, the scar of his love and his betrayal on my heart and in my soul.
I have so many scars… on my knee. And mentally. More importantly, mentally. OK, I guess I’m being dramatic. It’s just that, after existing for 22 years, I feel like I’ve learned many lessons and if I could go back in time to change things and how I’ve acted, I would.
it left a scar upon my heart,
a jagged cut that still today,
scares the bird, my yellow joy,
from my soul away.
it tore in two my peaceful sky,
and filled my eyes with rain,
and singing softly in the dark,
it filled my thoughts with pain.
with disrespect and bad intentions
it lured me in and I,
broken,
waiting,
and nearly frozen,
followed it inside.
it gave me what i wanted most,
but hurt me as it went,
it dug and cut and shattered,
pausing only when assured my purity was spent.
it left me then,
alone was I,
drifting in the cold.
and then i knew what harm could come,
from a thing so bold.
but who, they ask,
who could it be, that tears you limb from limb?
and i,
still cripple-hearted,
can only say “’twas him”
Sometimes I wonder what all of his scars mean, where they came from. Were they accidents, little marks of the years he’s passed on his life? Maybe they had a meaning and each of them had a special event associated with them, a story worth telling.
I had a scar back in the day. It was on my left arm, right below the elbow. It didn’t mean anything like these things often do, it was just there, existing. People often asked me what the scar meant or what it was from, but I could never tell them because I didn’t know and even if I did, it wouldn’t be important. Things like that never are.
Christ said “You shall not get out till you have paid the last penny”.
Katabasis; the descent, the downward, the sinking through the floor.
I must travel down and leave. I must leave every bit of self I have now behind and let it fade and rise anew, from the ashes of the grief I have spent time realizing.
Let these wounds show me the dark door of the way that is out, and I shall travel without looking back.
Saying these words cheats me of the effort I make downwards. I let them fade
and sink into something I no longer know
Stories, waiting to be told, physically visible in the form of a mark. Can you bear to hear the cause? Are you willing to suffer with me as I tell you? Remember, once you have heard my story, you will be entwined with a part of my life forever.
I keep doing shoots for videos, and I keep gettingscars. There’s one on my ankle that I cut while running through the forest, and one from a gash in my knee after falling to the ground in a mess of post-apocalyptic garb.
It was etched into me, like the words he spoke
it might have been the way he dismissed it but I still had a little hope
it was all this hope that ended up bringing me down to the bottom anyway
when will i ever learn
when will i ever return to the way I was
to the person I used to be
proud
She ran her hand over the light almond-shaped scar on my knee. “It looks like a lemon,” she whispered, leaning in closer.
I laughed. “I think it’s more of an almond.”
She kissed it, and a tear darted down my calf.
March 24th, 2010.
You showed up.
Your wrists were cut.
There was blood on my front porch.
And on my hands.
You were crying.
And i didn’t know what to do.
So I just let you cry
And I cleaned your cuts.
And you stayed for dinner.
And you smiled at everybody.
Did I save your life that day?
She traced the scar with the tip of her finger, remembering the searing pain of the knife as it carved its mark into her skin. She hadn’t run. Instead, she’d fought back, possessed by a power borne of fear and pain. When forced to chose between fight or flight, flight had never been an option.
Halfway through undoing his belt, I froze. My eyes had finally fallen on his stomach, onto the bright, fleshy pink scar situated there. I shouldn’t be thinking about this now; he was on top of me, and I had been finally given the chance to fulfill my burning lust. The want fell away in an instant, however, and all I could feel now was a horrid sensation of guilt mixed with extreme sorrow.
The scar on her face that was left by that man. If you can even call him a man. how can someone do this to such an inncent child. The nightmares she is having because of that night. Oh I just can’t imaigan.
This scar of mine, you take your measure of it as you stand in front of me. Your lips are the scalpel, and you so carefully draw me open again, as if I am nothing more than a science project. And when my emotions spill out, you catch them in your hands, cradle them like treasure. You let the confusion, the rage, the neediness wash over your chest, as my knees buckle into you. At least that is how I dream it. Wish it. Longing for that was how I got this scar in the first place.
Cinderella had a scar on her lip. It looked like she had a lip piercing. But she was still very pretty, despite her scar. She was scared though. She was afraid of losing her child. However, she was determined not to let her baby get taken away.
I stared at his stomach. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about it, he was on top of me, I was finally getting what I wanted from him, but the lust fell away in that second. The fleshy pink scar that ran across his stomach mocked me and my selfish wants.
It was time
but you would not come
Your body pushing from inside mine
struggling to take a first breath
but whether it was my body that resisted
or your head that would not turn
the moment of decision was
taken from us
and with a rush
of machines and people in green
I was laid out
and this scar was made
I have no worry of it
I boast it proudly
because from this scar
you emerged
and in my arms you were placed
I do not recall who cried first
but our tears mingled on your cheeks
as I cradled you in joy
Waking up in the hospital bed was a bit of a shock. How did I get here? My head is still swimming around and the seems to be cotton wool in my ears. But it’s the scar on my leg that is the most mysterious.
The lion uncle from the Lion King. He was so evil and so bad because he was close to the family. He pulled Simba into his confidence – this was the way they always did it in the old world, you see. Brother killed brother and father killed son. Those wretched battles of land and power. This was the truest one of the Disney movies. The death of the father – that is a motif. The hero’s journey.
Rome wasn’t built in a day, a month, a year. It was built with time and sweat. The steaming iron, the sweat dripping down the hands of men who toiled for hours, only armed with tools and a dream. The cuts, nicks, and burns were all just mementos of the journey. While the scars may last forever, the city prospers.
Everyone had some kind of scar. Red or black or brown. On their arms, their legs, their faces. It was a sign of the illness. A sign that they had been infected. Like a large scab that poisoned everything beneath the skin that was meant to protect us.
I was off for a cure. My scar ran from my forehead all the way down the left side of my jaw. I looked like a warrior. I felt like a doomed child.
Tearing, ripping through otherwise unblemished pristine skin.
slouching beside you in that booth, flipping your arm over, you tell me before i even see the fault: a scar across your wrist. looked like you were trying to kill yourself. a piece of glass–an accident–and i’m kissing you now in your car, snowing, waiting for my own car to warm.
scar… well
metaphorically, I don’t have very many
but physically
yes
but only small ones
I remember
a couple
years ago
I was searching for
something- I forget
what it was.
Outside, I knelt
A lightning bolt of pain
rocketed up my leg
I looked at my leg
there was a horde of
wasps
I ran away
My leg was swollen
for the next few days
from ONE bee sting
only one.
and yes, I have a scar from a wasp.
Don’t make fun of me!! ;)
i have a pretty bad scar on my left knee. i was a boy, and as boys do, i would play in the empty lot down the street. i used to pick indian paintbrushes (that’s a flower) and wrap them in a bundle for my sister. but then i got the scar.
ok.
The cannibal rolled the scar between his fingers like a CIGAR. Quick, he thought, Call the elementary phonetics reading book author! Not quite a homonym, it will need a new entry in the index! Scar-Cigar. Say it fast twice.
I have scars on my knuckles and knees
They’re white and thin and I
Don’t remember where I got all of them
I’ve never seen the marks of my family member
Who cut away at his life
Tried to bleed away the agony he felt
For so many years
My mind is hurt.
I have a lot of scars. I have scars from when I fell down, and I cried, and my mother kissed my elbow and told me there wasn’t that much blood. I have scars from when I crashed my bike, but didn’t tell anyone for fear of humiliation. And I have scars from the things he said to me, that cut deeper than any bike crash or childhood tumble could cause.