My scars remind me that I did indeed survived my deepest wounds. Ones that were inflicted upon my heart in hopes of finishing me off forever. Yet here I stand, still marching forward, and that in itself is an accomplishment. All my scars, they bring to mind something else, too. They remind me that the damage life has inflicted on me has, in many places, left me stronger and more resilient. Better equipped to face anything life might thrown my way ... anything at all.
He is not his broken heart. He is not the weight he lost or miles he ran and he is not the way he slept all alone under the bare sky in smell of tears and whiskey because he had nowhere to go and wanted something solid to sleep on. Like concrete. But above all, he is not your fault. He is the muscles building cells, a little every day, because they broke that day, but bones are stronger once they heal. He is smiling to the people that pass him by and replacing his groceries once a week and he is not sitting for hours in the shower anymore. He is the way a life unfolds and blooms and seasons come and go and he is the way spring always finds a way to turn even the coldest winter into a field of green and flowers into new life. He is not your fault.
