Were they simply pieces ripped from her, forever missing, forever haunting?

Or are they purposed pieces broken off, so her skin can finally settle around her just right?

Are they wounds she is always meant to carry, always raw and always open?

Or are they story scars declaring redemption?

Are they the tells that scream her greatest weakness, keeping her cast in constant shadow?

Or are they the tales recalling her strength to stand, again and again and again, like the rising morning sun?

These are her beautiful remains…
Chelsey Whitlow 


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