credit pbomers

She stands strong, defiant, determined.

The angry red scars on her wrists slowly fading.

Her chin juts forward, daring, taunting, challenging.

Her feet are braced. Her hands are curled. Her muscles tensed.
Someone gently takes her hand and touches their lips to her healing wounds.

It is her light, her hope, her breath.

They trace their fingers lightly over the crisscrossing lines, oh so softly.

The tension leaves, melts, releases, relinquishes.