🧬 What Still Remains in Scar Tissue Theology 🧬

 

You can take the clothes off my back

and hang them on colder shoulders.

Let my coat become a stranger’s sunrise,

let my warmth travel farther than my name ever could.

But tell me —

if generosity empties the body,

does it also hollow the soul,

or does it make more room for light to enter?

You can pour my last mouthful of water

into the cracked hands of the thirsty.

Let my thirst become a sermon —

proof that mercy still lives inside a world that forgets how to kneel.

And if mercy costs comfort,

is it still mercy,

or is it the quiet permission

to disappear with dignity?

You can take the shoes off my feet.

I’ve walked barefoot through shattered, burning glass.

Let the ground remember my name —

I will still keep moving.

Is survival an instinct,

or a vow the body makes to grief —

a contract signed in bruises and breath

that says, not yet?

You can take away the ones

who were never meant to stay.

The temporary ones.

The lessons.

The almost were.

The ones who taught me what loneliness feels like.

Tell me —

do some souls pass through us

only to teach our hearts

how to practice breaking?

Take the last dollar in my wallet.

Take the final bite in my fridge.

I have starved before —

and I am still here.

Is endurance holy,

or is it simply the art

of learning how to bleed quietly?

I did not learn humility from comfort.

I was humbled by hunger, by grief, by unanswered prayers —

by nights that taught me my name

is written in dust before it is written in light.

Mercy is the only wealth that never runs out.

Some of us survived because love refused to leave.

I learned how to bleed quietly — and still keep breathing.

I beg you to spare the ones I love.

Their souls are bonded to mine.

They are the stones in my foundation.

The place where the well never runs dry.

If love is the only permanent shelter,

why does the storm always seem

to memorize it’s address?

I have buried too many names.

Watched too many people disappear.

I don’t think my heart

can survive another goodbye.

Call me selfish if you must,

but a heart can only shatter so many times

before the scar tissue

learns how to stop the beat.