Marked.

In soap I use to wash my face
Is where they etched their fading trace.
My tainted hands, now clean and free-
I rubbed away their hold on me.

The dirt, it clings onto the soap,
And that is how I cut their rope.
Worn away with every layer
The lines are almost no-more there.

 

[But you, I see you, in the dark.
In stone, is where you left your mark.]

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