Ink

His story was written in ink, symbols sprawled across his chest, words enscripted beneath the skin. A permanent nightmare was engraved onto his body. Lies intertwined his veins. This was not a story to be told, but a secret to be kept, his life was not to be known. But when carrying a heavy weight for what seems like eternity, at one point you must fall, and be crushed by your past. He was a living book that was never to be read.