From my scar a cloud was born.

My scar is my pride.

My scar is the living memory of my limit and the limit of others.

My scar was made on the way.

It was an accident.

We were all once literally a black sheep, not because of the colour of our skin but because of the scars and baggage we acquired.

From my scar sprouted yellow flowers.

From my scar flourished growing scars, bouncy childhood coloured with erased watercolours.

The weight of the wool of a black sheep is minimal compared to the weight of ignorance and disregard.

My scars remain in the minds of those who have them.

My scars tell their stories in silence.

In my scar love was born.