I stand in front of the mirror, tracing my fingers over healed scars,
Each line a whisper of battles fought in silence,
The scars that tell a story, an unspoken chronicle of pain and survival.

My fingers trace the healed skin, each scar a reminder of the past,
Where despair once lived,
Moments that felt endless, yet somehow, I endured.

Even though the scars on my arms have healed, have I?
The surface is smooth, but beneath lies a maze of memories.

I breathe deeply, accepting the journey,
Understanding that healing is both visible and unseen.
Each day, a step towards wholeness,
A testament to the strength within,
And the hope that guides me forward.