Flesh Once Flawless

I wrote "fat" on my stomach and "numb" on my wrist and felt as though the words carried no weight. It didn't matter how much I killed myself, I knew that I still wouldn't die, so I kept cutting. I kept cutting over the words I had carved into my body to make it real. But it was never made real because my own critique means nothing. So I decided to instead take the critique of others, the words they had thrown at me for years and years that I had cast away into a space in my mind that I never could reach, and I used all my might to pull them out of my body and up out of skin and they truly left wounds. Words and sneers that had never so much as dented me before had cut through my steel flesh and popped out into the open. In doing so, I learned that the more one dwells on other's remarks, the deeper the wounds go and the longer the scars last, until one final word cuts your throat, finally letting out all of the blood that you had let run through your veins until you felt nothing, spill out over the carved and ripped skin that was once flawless.