What’s Left After the Storm

The razor wasn’t sharp enough to carve out what I felt inside, so the pain just changed its color, and the silence learned to hide. I thought the scars would speak for me, that someone else would finally see— but time kept moving quietly, and the mirror only answered me. Now the marks have turned to stories, the kind that whisper late at night, of moments where I lost my breath but somehow still chose life. I trace them not with shame but care, like roads that led me back to air— I bled, I broke, I cried, I healed, and now I know: I’m still real. --- Would you like me to make it sound darker and rawer, or more hopeful and healing-focused?