No, I don’t adore the marks I carry.
They’re not symbols of strength to me—
just remnants of a silence that screamed too loud.

Every time my eyes meet them,
a quiet ache stirs beneath the surface,
a memory I never invited, returning unannounced.

They were fading once, nearly gone.
But something pulled them back into the light,
and now they speak louder than I do.

I hate how visible my quiet battles have become,
how pain sometimes etches itself where the world can see.
But I don’t linger too long in that thought.

I simply breathe,
and move through the days with the weight of it all,
learning to carry what cannot be erased.