Metamorphosis
I want to devote this writing for the Wounded and Worthy.
I. The Scars Beneath His Skin He came from silence—not the peaceful kind, But the hush of screams swallowed whole. Where love was a blade, and trust a trap, And every hug left a wound on his soul. His childhood was a battlefield, No medals, no mercy, no light. Just shadows that danced on broken walls, And dreams that died each night. Yet from the ashes of his pain, He rose—not to strike, but to mend. He stitched his heart...
