Quotes About Scars

You can measure the happiness of a marriage by the number of scars that each partner carries on their tongues, earned from years of biting back angry words.

There is a level of grief so deep that it stops resembling grief at all. The pain becomes so severe that the body can no longer feel it. The grief cauterizes itself, scars over, prevents inflated feeling. Such numbness is a kind of mercy.

Every waiting season in my life has left its mark on me. I have memories, scars. And honestly? I don't mind the scars anymore. They are part of me now; I wouldn't recognize myself without them.

The things that were so bad, that hurt so. If I forget them, if I forget such things still happen, how can I help others? My scars prove that I know myself what others suffer.

I have just returned from having surgery on the mercenary flagship—I was nearly killed when my ship was boarded, and I don't see any scars on you, sir. Don't push your luck.

Art is supposed to make you feel something, and I began to realize my appearance was my art. My body, my face, my scars told a story—my story. But I guess that's how life works sometimes—noticing beauty only in retrospect and poetry, in silence.

By the light," he said, when he had mastered himself. "I think that beats singing a lullaby to a stormdog for simplicity and economy, Maerad. But I wish I had known that you simply had to blow at Hulls to get rid of them. It would have saved me a few scars.

I know not all people with scars are evil," I snap. "I'm not living in a cartoon.

Not all people with scars are evil.

Like when you scrape your knee and you get a scar, but then the scar fades so much that no one can see it but you. But you know where it is. Cuz you remember what caused it. And no matter how hard you try, you can never forget how bad it hurt when it first happened.

I don't have a weapon in my hand, and I don't have a uniform on my body, but my uniform now is my scars and weapon is my words, so I'm still serving.

but the cracks and scars on Jonsen's enormous hands were as interesting to her as the valleys on the moon to a boy with a telescope.

All these scars. The road map of my life. My armor.

What happened to your face?" she says idly. "Which time?" "The new one." "I got shot.

Look at my face. I didn't get these scars in pillow fights." That seems to convince her. Never doubt the power of ugly.

How could she explain all my scars? "His mom swaddled him in burlap and razor wire when he was a baby . . .

What happened to your face?" she says. She pulls down my shirt a few inches. Spots more scars. "And the rest of you." "Never follow a foul ball into a wood chipper," I say. "We didn't even win the game.

The Navy's caste system has the reputation of being about as rigid as any in the world. The first thing most Navy officer do when they meet you is look at your hands to see whether or not you're wearing a Naval Academy class ring. If you do, then you're about of the club. If you don't, then you're an untouchable. I was the original untouchable. The only things I wore on my knuckles were scars.

They say that time heals all wounds. But even as wounds heal they leave scars, token reminders of the pain.

And if the surgeon is like a poet, then the scars you have made on countless bodies are like verses into the fashioning of which you have poured your soul. I think that if years later I were to see the trace from an old incision of mine, I should know it at once, as one recognizes his pet expressions.

I swear, I end up feeling empty, like you've taken something out of me and I have to search my body for scars.

I swear, I end up feeling empty, like you've taken something out of me, and I have to search my body for the scars, thinking Did he find that one last tender place to sink his teeth in?

Their history was in their eyes, and their sacrifices in their scars.

Riley was a big boy, too, six two, six three, but he dressed nicer than the goons. Had the boots, but he wore slacks and a sport coat. A polite guy, well-spoken, Hicks even kinda liked him, but every time they were together, Hicks was ready to kill him. Scars slashed his forehead and nose, and ginormous knuckles bulged from catcher's-mitt hands.