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Sometimes, I feel the weight of the world pressing down on me, yet I let it be.
Inside, a fierce spark burns to reclaim what once slipped away.
There are moments when giving up feels almost right,
But I live in a world shaped by my mind where battles rage within.
I have weaved myself from threads of pain, loss, and lessons learned.
As time flows my strength and mind grow, rising like a phoenix from the ashes.
I move closer to a place of calm a haven for those who endure,
Where dreams find rest and life bursts into vivid colors once more.
#Original #Abdo #rebirth
Through the greys I chase your heart,
an indecisive cerulean butterfly
seeking merry meadows,
showing me path to such colours
even my imagination couldn't conjure,
"hold me," you seem to whisper
"and we shall find your destiny,"
I cling to your calls,
colourblind yet,
their symphony dissolving hopes
through the depths of my bereaved soul,
ushering my being into flower fields
looked after by a vibrant rainbow.
Colours taste like your affection
that the voids of my heart craved for,
at last, here I stand, appeased,
beneath all these colours raining on me
endowing me their fluorescence,
eradicating every speck of grey
I have always known as my skin.
#happiness
#poetry
Some days, I'm the desert.
I forget too soon the taste of
water before having the chance to
savor it.
Other days, I'm the well in the desert.
I give out what I need
to satisfy others, and I'm unable to
water the dead part of me.
Some days, I'm the desert;
other days, I'm the well in the desert.
I forget there are parts of me that exist
and there are things hidden
within me.
I am so used to my aloneness that
quickly I erase the footprints
of those that leave a mark on me
to delude myself that none of it exists.
Some days, I'm the well in the desert.
I sometimes don't know
what my purpose is or if I have one
to begin with.
Other days, I'm the desert.
The one true knowledge I've
learned from this life is that anything
that is starved surely will die,
and that the longer the starvation,
the lesser the hunger—
lesser and lesser, till what was long
for is eventually forgotten.
Such applies to all things in existence.
The buried ant beneath the
soil forgets the sight of sunlight.
The unattended fire forgets to
become smoke.
The plants not watered forget and
turn grey.
The heart immersed in love forgets
the feel of pain.
The heart accustomed to suffering
forgets pleasure.
I am starting to forget.
So, my dear, I ask you:
Who told you that you win a heart
by breaking it?
What or who had you been listening to?
You have done a greater injustice
to yourself than you had to me.
If only you knew I need not the promises
of worldly possession
nor the finest words that drip from
the lips like honey.
I only needed that you promise
your heart,
and I would have been most willing
to give my life.
— Myra
𝑴𝒂𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝑾𝒆𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔
𝐻𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑤𝑜 𝑜𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑒𝑠,
𝐵𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑒𝑥𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑝𝑜𝑛𝑠,
𝐷𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒, 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑢𝑑𝑠,
𝑆ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑝ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑠, 𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝑤𝑜 𝑑𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑝𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑠,
𝐿𝑒𝑓𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑐, 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑐,
𝐻𝑎𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑆𝑎𝑡𝑎𝑛’𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒, 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑜𝑓 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑐 𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠.
𝑇𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑐𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑦,
𝐼𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑔𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑚𝑦 𝑠𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠,
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑔ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑠 𝑛𝑎𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑑, 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑛 𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑟 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒,
𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑-𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑.
𝑂𝑤𝑙𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑑, 𝑠𝑖𝑔𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑖𝑑𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡'𝑠 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑎𝑐ℎ,
𝐶𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑏𝑎𝑙𝑠 𝑠𝑛𝑖𝑓𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦'𝑠 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑚𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑝𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑡,
𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑙𝑡 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑟,
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑖𝑔𝑛𝑖𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑛 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑡,
𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘, 𝑑𝑎𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑙𝑦 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒,
𝐻𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑙𝑦, 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑝𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑢𝑒𝑟,
𝑌𝑒𝑡 ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑢𝑝.
𝐷𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑢𝑑𝑠 𝑜𝑏𝑠𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑠,
𝐻𝑎𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑 𝑑𝑜𝑜𝑟,
𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑦 𝑝𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑠, 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡.
𝐴 𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑑𝑖𝑐 𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑙𝑦, 𝑚𝑢𝑟𝑚𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑎𝑟,
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑒𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑒𝑑, 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡𝑤𝑖𝑐𝑒.
𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑑,
𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑦, 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜,
𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑒𝑔, 𝑎 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑝 𝑛𝑎𝑖𝑙,
𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ, 𝑎 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑢𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔,
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑛 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒, 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑐 𝑘𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔.
𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑡 𝑡𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑙𝑦,
𝐵𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡,
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑒𝑓 𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑛 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔,
𝑀𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔,
𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑, 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑔𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟,
𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑛, 𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙,
𝑅𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑢𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑥-𝑓𝑖𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒́’𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟,
𝑂𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑒𝑑𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡.
★彡 𝒚.𝒎
You said your thoughts are knots,
but I don’t believe it.
I see threads unraveling,
delicate,
just tangled enough to be unwound.
Come sit,
and let me run my fingers through them—
slow,
like the slow rain that brushes against windows
but never shatters them.
It won’t be fixed,
but it will be softer.
The House
I used to live in a beautiful house
Where the walls were strong and the beds were soft.
The paintwork warmed the eye
And the clock's ticking serenaded a gentle lullaby.
The bedrooms, though were not that grand,
Provided comfort like a mother's tender hands.
And the clean water flowed from its faucets
Carried with it the soothing murmurs of a sentimental poet.
Fresh, nutritious fruits and vegetables
From its little garden were always available,
And the yard was adorned with grass so smooth and flowers adorable.
And the land on which this house stood
Was also lush and verdant,
A place where weariness was alleviated
And the air of peace and solace circulated.
And the bridge that connected the land to the outside world
I rarely used, for the satisfaction with which the house graced me
Rendered me to not want to seek another adventure.
And I called this house — and also the land — home
For they gave me everything I had ever dreamt of.
Until one day I left and destroyed the bridge...
My desires take pieces of me,
day after day,
tearing away bits of who I am,
leaving dreams tattered in their wake.
The dreams I run after
slip like smoke through trembling hands.
The ones I give up on
linger as ghosts,
their whispers clawing at my back.
Like a raindrop lost
in the desert’s endless thirst,
my desires burrow into my soul
not to mend,
but to feed on what’s left,
leaving cracks too sharp for hope to grow.
And I could write nothing,
only because I wanted to write better.
#sigh
You're here but not at the same time. You stand on the two connected roads with drastically different ends yet you hesitate, taking steps to the other means you can't go back, but do you really want to have that thing lording you for eternity. Our choices are what defines us more than our abilities. You choose, you become what you choose.
You're here in this place but not at the same time. You are the one they regretted because you're unforgettable yet all your charms have dark qualities, not everyone understands or appreciates that kind. You can have influence or credit but not both for you define something or you let it define you.
Today I have no words.
They went away to rest.
They worked too hard,
building you up,
breaking you down.
Maybe they need time;
maybe I do too.
I sink deep into the misfortunes of being the one that doesn't trick you. I won't change myself for anyone. I loathed how easily you're manipulated into accepting everything you heard. Did I not make a good enough impression or are you that easily fooled?
I dug deep into the lies that were told like a hot tea that don't go cold. I know myself and that's what matters. I don't explain myself because if you're the one you'd know me by my sigh and my eyes. Was I mistaken about you or were you just mistaken about me?
You're beautiful because
You dare to exist in this world
That demands conformity.
Like a tropical storm bending trees
Yet never breaking them,
Your truths crash
Into carefully placed illusions.
You're monstrous because
You sing lullabies with the silence
I've become uncomfortable with.
Reminding me of the depths
Purposely left unexplored,
You pull me into a chaos that blooms
Like wildflowers from the cracks in concrete.
You dance in space, free floating,
And I'm caught in the orbit,
Wondering whether to hold on or let go,
Wondering if I can pick up the pieces
From this sometimes monstrous
And always beautiful collision.
Does writing heal something inside you?
Your trauma,
your grief,
your guilt,
they slip off your bones
on the white, crisp pages
into fine lines of art
that people applaud for.
They scream to you,
telling you how beautiful you write
and you find yourself questioning—
‘is my misery beautiful?’
But when your fingers graze
the lines you wrote,
the thick and thin of your life,
your tongue clicking on your teeth
reciting them.
Your sadness and pain
finally burns its way
back to your flesh.
You've never given me a brief when you designed the darkness,
But I know it's your art,
And stuck inside the maze of your work,
Where I'm scared for my life,
Where every voice screams,
It'll tear me apart,
I look for you to step out of the dark,
I have the audacity to pray rescue into your arms.
I scrape poetry on your skin
with fingers dipped in ink;
they're akin to your misery,
you tell me with a smile,
as if getting a tattoo for the first time,
pride masks your wincing face,
when you tell me I'm the only one
who can leave a mark on you
and to believe it was a joy,
to be not known as scar
in the name of a forsaken memory,
but a mark of irreplaceable love,
you won't wash off of your skin
and let it be seen proudly
for every eye to behold.
#sensual
#poetry
Should I cheat for once?
Force the echo of the pain to subside,
Watch as the soul of my memories dies.
Should I cheat for the look in your eyes,
The hint of joy beneath all that we did,
Wrap myself and you in a scarlet gown of lies?
And just for a night, love you again,
Put on the masks of the people we've been,
Those two who found solace in each other's sin,
Who flew on their shadows into the secret labyrinth,
Slow-danced into the dusk as life whirled them in a spin.
Should I cheat for you, love?
They say it was just love,Читать полностью…
and it will return once more.
But does the earth ever breathe
the same scent after a second pour?
I planted a garden of ideas
in the fertile soil of my mind.
But the weeds of doubt grew faster,
their tendrils choking every tender sprout.
I tried to uproot them,
but my hands only bled.
So now I sit in this wild chaos,
admiring how the weeds
bloom brighter
than the roses ever could.
There’s a tendency in most humans to self-sabotage: the need to trade what we have, to see the life we live as a glass half full. We beg to fill it with whatever liquid we can find—the poison, the ale, the nectar, the sour.
You are complete now. You’ve built a kingdom from the heaps of stones they buried you under. So why, then, do you reach for the unknown?
Do the trickles of blood and the stains of sweat upon the gates of your land not cry out to you when you wish to desert them?
Do you ever think that blessings sometimes come unbidden? That chasing the wind and its seductive whispers has never brought anyone good? Humor me—just this once—and think.
#2
After The Storm
I woke up,
the air heavier than dreams,
knew it was raining.
The scent of the ground rose up,
It came before my eyes did,
before the window’s light
spilled gray into the room.
I sat on the edge of the bed,
the hum of the storm
rolling through the walls.
The kind of rain that doesn’t rush,
just lingers.
Downstairs, the kettle whistled.
Her hands moved,
steady with routine,
making tea for two
though one cup would cool untouched.
She worries,
though I am past forty.
Her gaze presses,
searching for what I don’t say.
The lines around her mouth
have deepened.
"You don’t eat enough," she says,
breaking the silence,
not looking up.
I murmur something soft,
the words dissolving
like sugar in her tea.
Outside, the rain
washes the garden clean.
The scent of rosemary,
earth,
and wet stone
seeps in through the cracks.
I am a grown man
but in this house,
I am always her son.
She knows the storm,
not just the one outside
but the ones that follow me
inward, silent.
When I leave,
her worry stays,
a thread tied to my steps.
The rain might stop,
but she’ll feel it still.
This is how she loves:
Always quiet and persistent,
like the ground after rain,
holding its breath
long after the storm.
The more we try to hold,
the less we truly have.
A river cannot stay in our hands,
and the breeze cannot live in a jar.
Not every flower should grow
in the garden of our heart and soul.
Some flowers bloom for a while,
then it’s time to let them go.
If we hold on too tightly,
we block the sunlight,
and their beauty fades away.
Love, like a garden, needs care
but also the strength to let go.
Kindness flows like a river,
peace grows like soft grass,
and joy stays when we choose wisely.
Sometimes, letting go is love
making space for what belongs.
~Thoughtless
I owe you nothing;
not my reasons,
not my scars,
not my verses
not the labyrinth of my choices.
You ask for explanations
as if they’re currency,
as if my truths must be paid in full
before they’re believed.
But I’ve grown tired of standing trial
for the crime of being myself.
Judge me, if you must;
I have long since stopped
needing your verdicts.
To me, loving resembles the candle that burned all night to eradicate shadows away from the corners of the room it sits in, with its flare spilling its radiance and warmth till it's reduced to half before the rays of dawn break in to take its place.
#love
#heart
#happiness
#words
Where You Left Me (Past Self)
I'm sorry.
This December, I couldn't give you the sweater
you once craved.
I saw it today—
the one I gave you last year,
lying in bloodstains,
buried beneath the melted snow,
beneath my cold grave.
A year has passed since that December 3rd.
I saw you today,
holding his hands—
my hands,
wearing his sweater—
my sweater.
"Why would you ever kiss me?
I’m not even half as pretty."
I gave you my sweater.
The snow remembers;
it melts into regret,
its whispers fraying the threads
of the promises we made.
I walked away,
to the stone that bears your name,
weeping,
as though you had never left mine.
- Achu B
Perhaps saying it is enough.
That I like being myself
even on days I wish
to forget my name.
That I'm quite optimistic
even though hope feels like a
long-lost friend.
Because who knows—
The words I say
might echo and reach
the silent, broken souls
making a home
somewhere inside them,
somewhere inside me.
I told myself I could write the universe,
galaxies of emotion,
black holes of longing,
stars of hope.
But here I am,
struggling to light a single match.
The fire doesn’t come,
and I am left with shadows.
~
In the name of sanity, I'm a relentless scar in the face of hope that dares to rise again instead of keeping its knees bent in slavery of reality's ruthless authority.
A reckless one, that never stays the same, yet remains ever unabiding of the setbacks under the glory of saintly beliefs in fray of justified expectations being imposed over mouths that were deemed fit to never utter a word again.
#hope
#resentment
There is a vocabulary
I’ve yet to master,
a dictionary of emotions
written in a script I cannot trace.
Is it too much to ask
for someone
who knows the words
before I utter them,
someone who fills the blanks
not with answers,
but with understanding?
Your heart is not for cowards,
not for those who don’t fight for you,
who don’t rush to hug you like the wind chases the clouds,
or smile when they kiss you,
like the sun after a rainy day.
If they don’t care when you’re gone,
if they don’t shout your name with pride,
like birds singing to the sky,
if they don’t want to be close to you,
let them go.
You deserve someone who sees your worth,
like the stars light up the dark night,
someone who loves you fully,
like rivers flow without stopping.
So protect your heart like you would a treasure,
be careful who you trust and let in.
Your heart is special,
so don’t let anyone hurt it.
~Thoughtless
Under my coat lies a heart
too stubborn to stop beating,
too tired to explain why.
It doesn’t beg to be understood,
only to be seen—
not for its cracks,
but for the light still leaking through.
And maybe that’s enough.
To carry it forward,
fractured and trembling,
believing that someday,
somehow,
it will be more than its scars.
#agony
~©Darkpit