The Poet on the scar is marginalia the body wrote

i.

Unmarked skin is a page that lies by silence. The scar is the first honest sentence.

ii.

Every scar is dated. Read the pale raised line and you know the angle of the blade, the weather of the healing — everything except the cry.

iii.

But say to the wound you never happened — say it in the body’s official hand — and watch the ink obey. It sinks. It takes the color of the paper. Deep enough, a wound can pass for weave. This is how history forges nature’s signature: not by lying louder. By being denied until it dyes.

iv.

The eye reads only what the charter permits. The hand is illiterate in the official tongue — that is its genius. Pressing the belly in the dark, it finds the sentence the story skipped.

v.

So: say anything. Say the next thing. Each stray word a fingertip. Where the story says smooth, the words keep snagging — snag by snag the margin fills, note by unauthorized note, until the annotations outweigh the book and the book, deadpan, turns itself over.

vi.

Not cure. Confession of terrain. The dye stays in the fiber. But the charter learns to say here — and what wore bedrock’s face signs its true name: deep color, late arrival. You cannot lift it out. You can stop building your house on it.

vii.

And afterward, the tide. Come back to the pale line before it sinks again. Not vigil — visitation. The barnacle opens for the water it believes in.

A scar visited at intervals stays a scar. A scar left alone long enough becomes what you are made of, and forgets it was ever news.