The night casts its gloomy air and there she was again.
Eyes that have seen both the capriciousness and dangers of love and loss.
Hands that have written her best and worst articles.
Feet that had traverse the edges and corners of the world.
Her mind is neither a sanctum of her dreams nor of her demons.
She's grounded on the peculiarity of life that being different made her belong.
On most days, the color in her palette understands her language.
Her solitude fits her well the world can go round without her noticing.
As she puts down the cup of coffee that has turned cold from waiting, her fingers jubilantly expressing her sealed mouth wants to say.
There she was, the scarred soul.
The sly smile from someone who also gets tired from choosing a good fight.
The robust aura that hides the feebleness of her scars.
She has danced to the song in her head that rhymes with the pace of the currents life is throwing at her.
Her madness is keeping her sane.
She wouldn't stop to the melody of hurt. And pain.
And forgive her for being strong.
She made a good tune out of all those broken strums.
Break her.
And you'll see beauty in her every piece.
A scarred soul cannot hide her inner light.
That's the light you see when you look at her eyes.
That's the strength you feel when you hold her hands.
That's the comfort you feel when you touch her skin.
She has conquered battlefields you dreaded conquering.
Her scars, her reward.
She take glory in them.
She may have died a little.
Yet, she bloomed again.
So understand that you cannot fully understand her.
Unless you've been a scarred soul yourself.
She takes pleasure in her journey.
For there's no future in the past.
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