Sitting in that quiet, yet screaming room. The walls shatter in my mind as I stare into the eyes of my accuser. Knowing a record of my past thoroughly, accusations are typically accurate. Evidence won’t assist in the secret, as it shines its brightest craving for someone to see. Yanking my legs up underneath my bottom, I adjust my position, becoming more comfortable. Criss-Crossed I stay calm, denying everything. Evidence still shows “truth”. Scars on my left, frail wrist show that the past is the past, but could also be the present. Healed, yet dark and cracked. Wounds from the past, leaving memories for the future. The evidence is deemed unreliable. These scars have faded. And not just the ones on my wrist.