she learned as a kid to dress her burns with dignity and to bury her nose inside books to mask a sinking loneliness. but as she grew up, so did the rest of the world surrounding her. and she found that reading could not manage to heal every hurt that blossomed on fragile skin. some wounds were meant to be rubbed in salt. these realizations came quietly, a blade slowly creeping up against ones throat. and the fear of unwavering change settled into the pit of her belly like a sapling, forming bruises and ruin over aging scars.