The wounded attract the wounded.
They are like wolves sniffing for blood, while their own wounds are wide open. They'll latch onto each others bodies and feast upon their flesh, finding comfort in their warmth, as their body slowly turns cold and lifeless.
The abused looked for the abused.
Maybe sniffing for blood is in their genes maybe that's why all the once they love have scars. What horrible ghosts haunt them- that manifest themselves as old torn flesh and ruptured veins and hard seams festering like open wounds beneath their decomposing epidermis.
I am not sure that us, lungs unpolluted by smoke, spirit unscathed by trauma, soul unmarked by cruelty, skin untouched by sin as horrifying as theirs, would want to know.
They got these scars, you see, climbing the barb-wire fences into heaven. They got these scars, you see, tearing their souls to eradicate what lies within them, all the nights that their haunting memory contradicted their human existence, caged in hollow bodies, confined to the edges of sin-spoilt skin and flame-licked bones.
