Ever since I was young, it felt like I was constantly under attack. Not from one singular enemy, but many and seemingly unending. I watched as villains raised their needles and plunged them into my body, much like swords slicing through skin. I remember screaming in pain and begging someone to save me, but no one ever came.

I soon learned there would never be a reprieve, it was never going to get any better. There was no prince or savior in my story.

I didn’t realize, or rather want to admit, I had already been mortally wounded. A fiery rage had been lit from the first attacks against me, and try as I might to ignore it, it would keep growing through the years.

The only option I had was to craft myself a suit of armor. It took years to build up something that could withstand the onslaught of constant torture. I worked every day to perfect the armor I showed the world. Every night I’d scrub away the rust and polished it until my soul ached and my heavy heart burned. The tricky thing about this armor was the metal of my defenses shown so brightly, it reflected what others wanted to see. Everyone saw their own version of me, but none of them really understood they were seeing a mere reflection. Not my reality.

What I didn’t realize about this carefully crafted armor was that it was also trapping me. That fire that had been lit so many years ago increasing raged through me. I could feel it burn through my veins with every attack. The armor prevented anyone from seeing it.... but I was ******* fire screaming for help. But my screams were echoed inside my own suit but silenced on the outside.

The worst bit is, if someone tries to reach out, to touch even in kindness, the metal burns them harshly. The fiery rage that’s kindled for so long internally is conducted easily by the metal I’ve wrapped around me. Now, the terrifying truth dawns on me.

There is no way someone can save me without burning themselves. I’ve built myself a metal prison, where I will eventually crumble to ash when the fire dies out.