Wounds

The scars don’t define us — they whisper how far we’ve walked, through wars no one ever saw. I’m sorry, Ruth. I’m sorry, me. I’m sorry, God — for thinking pain was my only language. This is not my franchise. This is my search for peace, a slow return to paradise where my soul can finally breathe, no longer begging to escape time, but learning how to live inside it. I am not my wounds I am the one who outlived them