Scars Don't Ask Permission

-

 I have built a new home.

The windows are brighter.
The laughter stays longer.
Love no longer leaves
when I tell the truth.

And still—

some nights
an old wound remembers
the hands that made it.

A silence too long.
A door closed too gently.
A heartbeat skipping
because yesterday
once wore today's face.

This is the strange thing about healing:

The scar doesn't mean
I'm still bleeding.

It only means
I survived
something sharp enough
to leave its name
beneath my skin.

So when the past
knocks without warning,

I no longer invite it to stay.

I simply whisper,

"I remember you.

But I don't live there anymore."

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