Ink Stained Soul…

Wholeness is a myth I’ve never known. My scars aren’t whispers of inconvenience; they’re battle cries of survival. Trauma’s brutal brushstrokes painted my soul with darkness, yet I found colors in the shadows. I rose, again and again, like a phoenix forged from fragments. My cracks aren’t flaws; they’re golden seams of strength, woven into the fabric of my being. I’ll never be whole, but I’m a masterpiece of resilience, delicately precious and rare.