Their waspish comments pierce my soul
Like needles injecting poison of some sort.
The girl who greets me in the mirror
Has flawed features.
Maybe people were being honest after all.
Maybe I am what they say I am - fat.
Never before have I come across a situation so abstruce.
A desire to be be made of plasticine fills my mind.
Imagine!
I could mould myself with my fingertips
Remove faults, gain perfection.
I look around for a quick remedy,
Something to divert my mind.
Now that I've found it- thin, sharp and silver,
I hold it firmly and drag it
Over the soft skin of my hand over and over again.
It smarts terribly but it feels like the pain within is fading.
From fear of death and weltering, I leave my wrists untouched.
The scar remains as a constant reminder
Of the sin I committed,
Of how weak I was,
And of how I could not handle criticism.