How right that the body changed over time, becoming a gallery of scars, a canvas of experience, a testament to life and one's capacity to endure it.
Everyone asks about how I'll feel about the tattoos and scars in thirty years. I always say: "I'll like them. " I've always loved damaged monuments, in architecture and in humans.
Battle scars just remind us that we survived.
The Lord will not wish to count my trophies, but my scars.
I'm a grown woman. I've earned my experiences, my scars.
But there's a story behind everything. How a picture got on a wall. How a scar got on your face. Sometimes the stories are simple, and sometimes they are hard and heartbreaking. But behind all your stories is always your mother's story, because hers is where yours begin.
Silk didn't care if it slid over scars or smooth, untouched skin. I'd earned my right to be paranoid.
I don't want to die without scars.
It's funny how, even long after you've accepted the grief of losing someone you love and truly have gotten on with your life, every once in a while something comes up that plays "gotcha," and for a moment or two the scar tissue separates and the wound is raw again.
Scars on the back are a swordsman’s shame.
As I handed her the bag, the old scars on my wrist throbbed with buried memories.
Smile with instinct, then lick your wounds in the darkest of dark corners. Trace the scars back to your own fingers and remember them.
Nico was wrong. The Book of Fate isn't already written. It's written every day. Some scars never heal. Then again, some do.
An art that heals and protects its subject is a geography of scars.
To forgive heals the wound, to forget heals the scar.
It's never come easy for me. I don't think my mind allows me to rest ever. I have, I think, a chip on my shoulder, and some deep scars that I don't think were healed.
I wear glasses, have a big scar, I sing loud, and I am blond. I'm sorry!
There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature. A scar means the hurt is over, the wound is closed and healed, done with.
When I was a kid, I was at a bowling alley and I ran into a soda machine. I still have the scar on my right eyebrow obviously.
She looked at David closely, and the feeling was still there. She could see that his forehead was too high, that a small scar cut a white stroke through his eyebrow. And his smile was pretty crooked, really. But it was as if something had changed inside Tally's head, something that had turned his face pretty to her.