Some things engrave upon you a mark,
a mark deeper than a bruise,
yet not deep enough to be wound.
Just a scar,
a scar camouflaged with make-up,
yet never letting you shut out,
its daunting presence.
Some things cling onto you
parasites that become the key to our survival,
parasites that become symbiotic.
Some things change you,
change you that your former-self seems an illusion,
change you that your memory deceives you.