The Architecture of the Scar

The blade of the pen strikes a vein in the mind, To carve out the truths that the flesh left behind. No blood on the skin, yet the surface splits wide, To hollow the chambers where agonies hide. The ink is a weight that the silence must bear, A descent into shadows, the breath of despair. The surface is weathered by secrets long kept, In the hollows of rooms where the memories slept. A quiet reflection, a mirror of stone, That looks through the marrow and deep in the bone. To dismantle the walls of a fortress of pride, And find the vast ocean that surges inside. The anger that pools in the dark of the chest, Finds refuge on paper, a place it can rest. The sharp, jagged edges of fury and fear, Are blunted by language and rendered so clear. I pour out the poison, the venom, the flame, I give every terror a shape and a name. The violence directed inward so long, Transforms on the page into something like song. It hurts to remember, it hurts to expose, The deep-seated roots where the bitterness grows. Yet sitting in sorrow, confronting the sting, Is the only true conduit healing can bring. May these heavy lines find the echoes of old, In the spaces where stories are left to be told. A signal sent out to the ones in the dark, Who carry the pressure and bear the same mark. We write through the fracture, we bleed through the font, To balance the ledger of everything we want. A daily relapse that dismantles the ghost— The beautiful pain that delivers us most.