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  • janedoe 261w


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    Marring every inch of my body.
    Like brush strokes of a child
    On an empty canvas
    He struck, one after the other.
    Red, blue and purple
    Until there was no clear patch,
    Devoid of mark, left.

    They say, each scar tells a story.
    I would tell you many.
    If only I knew which story goes with which scar,
    Or if there is a story to tell at all.