Best 278 quotes in «scars quotes» category

A fighter never gives up. His scars are his ornaments. He may never be whole, yet he’s bigger than all his battles and beautiful, even in his brokenness.

A city isn’t so unlike a person. They both have the marks to show they have many stories to tell. They see many faces. They tear things down and make new again.

All of my secrets and scars and wishes and dreams can live together in this one body without shame, without blame, and without fear. I am all loved, all accepted, and all in service to God. In his eyes, regardless of what I did or didn’t do today, I am loved. I am His, so I am enough.

All scars tell a story, beautiful girl,” he said, releasing me to trace the marks on my stomach. “Yours are tellin’ me how healthy and f*ckin’ perfect my kid is gonna be.” A tear slid out of the corner of my eye. “Shut up,” I whispered. “And mine,” he said softly, grabbing my hand, trailing my palm across his cheek and then his chest. “Tell the story of how I found you.

A mí me disparan y me dicen: "No pasa nada". Trató de estar con un ánimo despreocupado y alegre por Gabriel. Necesito ignorar a Nesbitt, pero cuando voy a coger más pan, veo mi mano y todas las cicatrices que tiene y el tatuaje negro y quiero gritarle a Nesbitt que me dolió, que cada cicatriz que tengo dolió, y que mi cuerpo está cubierto de cicatrices que sanaron rápidamente pero que todas me dolieron, y no puedo decir de ninguna de ellas que "no pasó nada".

And he came to understand that the burial of the broken wasn't eccentric — this was what people did every day, stuffing their brokenness down, pushing it down, smoothing the surface over, making the surface look like nothing was broken underneath. Because, if people see that you are broken, they will not want to stand with you. They will migrate away from you the way groups of people walking down the street will move aside when a shambling ranting man approaches. They will look at the ground and look away so that such a person becomes invisible. So if you are such a person or just an everyday person with some broken places, some places really broken, you will pull them back from view so you can mingle with others without being seen as broken. Because if you have the look of a broken thing, if you are pushed aside and turned from, you will never find your footing again in the world.

Adoro la ambivalencia poética de una cicatriz, que tiene dos mensajes: aquí dolió, aquí sanó.

Always remember, that YOU are the most beautiful woman in the world. Your weight, your height, your eyes, your scars, your idiosyncrasies, your complexion, and your sartorial choices have nothing to do with beauty. The mirror lies darling. It does. Your heart is where all the beauty rests. And of course, it’s your smile that sprinkles a dash of magic! The world is a better place because of your gorgeous smile. Never walk out without a smile on our face, a zing in your step, and a high dose of faith in your heart.

And I find myself asking again and again.... What was it about such a beautiful man, who was able to leave such ugly scars?

And I wonder if that's what my scars really are: proof that I've put myself back together again.

And scars will lighten, they'll pale unless you keep rubbing at them...wait long enough, they'll fade.

And in her she’s flawed, with scars and wounds from battles she fought with her heart. Looking for a love so strong and worthy of the blood that flows through her veins… Never shall she settle… never.

And in the end, she left a scar and I knew that was how she wanted to be remembered. She wanted to leave her mark in the world without getting her heart too attached to it.

And she called him a stranger. Whose name still echoed in her mind like a war cry. Who had seen each bit of her naked soul and knew how scarred her soul is. Whose reflection still stood, smiling at her every time she stood in front of the mirror.

Are they beautiful? The lines left from suffering, Scars of emptiness.

A warrior is defined by his scars, not his medals.

At its core, the collection is built around a very wise line from a Beatles song: I want to hold your hand. I want to hold your hand with no further expectations. I want to hold your hand instead of telling you I understand when I don’t. I want to hold your hand although we don’t always get along. I want to hold your hand despite the calluses, scratches, and scars that get in the way. I want to hold your hand knowing I’ll have to let it go one day.

Another scar that faded enough to be just another mark we carried.

Beauty is not the flawless perfection of youth, but the fine lines, scars, and wisdom which only living can give you.

Blue-Eyed One, never again shall you cover your shoulders. I declare your scars to be medals of gallantry great than any I could bestow, and it is my will that all the Black Land look upon them, and learn the nature of courage.

Both her father’s hands bore the scars of old burns: the lines a map of a place no one wanted to remember, and Ross couldn’t forget.

But I'm here to let you know That I'll love you like you deserve I'll treat you right And on a cold, cold night I'll shower you in hugs & kisses And soup

But, standing in the fading golden sunlight now, I can feel some of the scars of the summer stabbing over. I can feel the promise of a new beginning.

But if a man truly loved you, he would see the beauty that lies much deeper than those scars.

Beyond all of that, I could see the wall I had seen from inside the train, the wall that runs along the train line. I assumed that there, behind it, was the west, and I was right. I could have been wrong, but I was right.' If she had any future it was over there, and she needed to get to it. I sit in the chair exploring the meaning of dumbstruck, rolling the word around in my mind. I laugh with Miriam as she laughs at herself, and at the boldness of being sixteen. At sixteen you are invulnerable. I laugh with her about rummaging around for a ladder in other people's sheds, and I laugh harder when she finds one. We laugh at the improbability of it, of someone barely more than a child poking around in Beatrix Potter's garden by the Wall, watching out for Mr McGregor and his blunderbuss, and looking for a step-ladder to scale one of the most fortified barriers on earth. We both like the girl she was, and I like the woman she has become. She says suddenly, 'I still have the scars on my hands from climbing the barbed wire, but you can't see them so well now.' She holds out her hands. The soft parts of her palms are crazed with definite white scares, each about a centimeter long. The first fence was wire mesh with a roll of barbed wire along the top.

But this you must know: the violent murder of a mother- when a boy is at the tender age, when he is just discovering girls- it is a terrible thing. confusingly mixed up with all the things feminine, it leaves a charred residue on the soul, like the black marks found at the bottom of a burned pot. no matter how much you scrub and scrub the pot bottom with steel wool and cleansers, the scars, they are permanent

Confidence is this: Wearing your triumphs with humility, and wearing your scars with pride. Many of us do precisely the opposite.

Do not cry to me. I can only cry with you. I will not die for you. I am still too young in the meaning of love. Talk to the Fool, to the one who left a throne to enter an anthill. He will enter your shadow. It cannot taint Him. He has done it before. His holiness is not fragile. It burns like a father to the sun. Touch His skin, put your hand in His side. He has kept His scars when He did not have to. Give Him your pain and watch it overwhelmed, burned away by the joy He takes in loving. In stooping.

Do not trust a person without scars. If they have no scars, then it means someone else is wearing theirs, usually unfairly, and usually permanently.

Don't be afraid of suffering. Often scars are the medals of success.

But tha't the thing about scars. They always stay with us, whether visible or unseen.

But what good are scars if they do not ache? And what good are eyes if they do not weep? What good is desire if it does not hurt? What good is a passion if it stays ‘sleep?

Celebrate every success but don't forget to enjoy those scars of failures.

Deep in the recesses of our mind is a trophy shelf on which sits many bottles. Each bottle contains the pain of a hurt that we have overcome and for which we have a scar - our badge of courage. Occasionally, a memory will knock the bottle off the shelf, the cork will come out and the pain is back. What we should notice each time this happens is that the pain is less intense, it takes less time to return it to the bottle and back onto the shelf and that our scar - our battle wound becomes stronger.

Don't be scared of scars. They just tell stories that are hard to hear.

El inventario de tus cicatrices, en particular las de la cara, que ves cada mañana al mirarte en el espejo del baño cuando te peinas o vas a afeitarte. Rara vez piensas en ellas, pero cuando lo haces, entiendes que son marcas que deja la vida, que el surtido de líneas irregulares grabadas en la piel de tu rostro son letras del alfabeto secreto que narra la historia de quién eres, porque cada cicatriz es la huella de una herida curada, y cada herida era resultado de una inesperada colisión con el mundo; es decir, de un accidente, de algo que no debía ocurrir a la fuerza, porque por definición un accidente es algo que no sucede necesariamente. Acontecimientos contingentes en contraposición a hechos necesario, y mientras te miras al espejo esta mañana comprendes que toda vida es contingente, salvo por el único hecho necesario de que antes o después tocará a su fin.

Echo’s breathing hitches when I slide my thumb along a smaller scar. She likes that spot. I’ve memorized it. A centimeter below the crook of her elbow. Her skin is sensitive there, and when I kiss it, Echo normally falls apart and nearly shatters. I gently press my lips behind her ear, and Echo nudges closer to me. “Why, Echo?” “Because.” I nip at her earlobe, and she shivers. “Because why?” Her shoulder moves under my body. A half shrug maybe. “It makes me feel better.” Fuck that. “Why?” A kiss on her neck. A long one. A lingering one. God damn, Echo tastes so good. Her skin is soft and tempting. But I want answers. “Because sometimes I want to blend in.” I raise my head and stare straight into her eyes, spotting the plain honesty. What she doesn’t understand is that she could never blend in. Blazing red hair. Bright emerald eyes. The most beautiful girl in the world. She’d turn heads regardless of a sweater.

Except here he crouched before her, all breakable brown eyes, old scars and the shortest temper she’d ever encountered. And unlike every other guy she’d messed around with before, this was the one man she couldn’t shake.

For all these stars, nothing is new. They’ve seen all kinds of wars and miracles, too. They know the messengers with their holy books will smile and wash their hands in blood. They know the politicians with their good looks will make the poor eat pies of mud. They’ve seen the Earth freeze and then burn with greed. They’ve seen the trees and the seas emptied. Yet, you won’t hear their sneers when a man arrives and, having experienced a number of years, proclaims: 'I have lived!' Because nothing is new under these stars: the lies, the love, the memories and scars, the ruin, the revolution, the fakes and true, the families, the friends, none of it is new. All of it—even the me and you.

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.

For grief has always been so dear to you that you would make me writhing in pain in the brothel of your imaginations than to be playing with a bunch of balloons in the yard where I should have been." "And may be that's why, you'd rather talk to me about this, than to write a story about me where I could live happily.

For me, the most interesting people seem to have the bumpiest pasts. I prefer to connect with someone who has experienced the struggles, battles, and casualties of life’s journey. There is beauty, wisdom, and truth to be found in the scars.

Emotional scars run deeper than the Nile and often lie lurking behind a smile.

Give it air & let the scar on your soul reveal itself, because, like the body, it too was made to heal itself.

He'd been told that women were sensitive about such things, as if a scar could somehow ruin their beauty, but scars were just stories told in flesh...

Good hearts don't leave scars like that.

Here's the thing about Hazel: Almost everyone is obsessed with leaving a mark upon the world. Bequeathing a legacy. Outlasting death. We all want to be remembered. I do, too. That's what bothers me most, is being another unremembered casualty in the ancient and inglorious war against disease. I want to leave a mark. But Van Houten: The marks humans leave are too often scars. You build a hideous minimall or start a coup or try to become a rock star and you think, "They'll remember me now," but (a) they don't remember you, and (b) all you leave behind are more scars. Your coup becomes a dictatorship. Your minimall becomes a lesion. ... We are like a bunch of dogs squirting on fire hydrants. We poison the groundwater with our toxic piss, marking everything MINE in a ridiculous attempt to survive our deaths. I can't stop pissing on fire hydrants. I know it's silly and useless--epically useless in my current state--but I am an animal like any other. Hazel is different. She walks lightly, old man. She walks lightly upon the earth. Hazel knows the truth: We're as likely to hurt the universe as we are to help it, and we're not likely to do either. People will say it's sad that she leaves a lesser scar, that fewer remember her, that she was loved deeply but not widely. But it's not sad, Van Houten. It's triumphant. It's heroic. Isn't that the real heroism? Like the doctors say: First, do no harm. The real heroes anyway aren't the people doing things; the real heroes are the people NOTICING things, paying attention. The guy who invented the smallpox vaccine didn't actually invent anything. He just noticed that people with cowpox didn't get smallpox. ... But then I wanted more time so we could fall in love. I got my wish, I suppose. I left my scar. ... What else? She is so beautiful. You don't get tired of looking at her. You never worry if she is smarter than you: You know she is. She is funny without ever being mean. I love her. I am so lucky to love her, Van Houten. You don't get to choose if you get hurt in this world, old man, but you do have some say in who hurts you. I like my choices. I hope she likes hers.

Her long blue sleeve was hiked past her elbow and I followed her gaze to the exposed skin. She attempted to yank her hand away, but I tightened my grip and swallowed my disgust. In all the horror-show homes I’d lived in, I never once saw mutilation like that. White and pale red, raised scars zigzagged up her arm. “What the f*ck is that?” I tore my eyes away from the scars and searched her face for answers. She sucked in several shallow gasps before yanking a second time and successfully jerking out of my grasp. “Nothing.” “That ain’t nothing.” And that something had to hurt like hell when it happened. Echo stretched her sleeve past her wrist to her fingertips. She resembled a corpse. The blood rushed out of her cheeks and her body quaked with silent tremors. “Leave me alone.” She turned away and stumbled back to the library.

Her scar tissue, which she seems to amass both physically and mentally, may not be pretty, but they have become tougher than if she had never been wounded at all.

He thought of what his mother always said whenever he cut himself, “Dimka, scars are time’s alphabet.” If so, his body was covered in poetry, his soul contained an entire encyclopedia of pain and loss..." Kelly Oliver, WOLF: A Jessica James Mystery