She took a cold blade and carved into her body.
Adding just another mark to the bounty of those wild stretch marks that adorned her.
She stared at the mirror as she clenched her teeth, burning in the inferno of pain,
And admired herself as she bled.
“Beautiful!”
She whispered, exhaling a sigh in the sultry air of her quiet room.
The void eyes of her reflection stared at her broken soul.
Another slash of the blade and yet another oozing wound.
Like a sculptor intricately chiseling a piece of marble with his fine tools,
Carving a beautiful sculpture,
She was her own sculptor now.
She was the master of her own body,
And her body, her masterpiece.
No one could stop her from her frenzy to create perfection.
All the eyes that looked down upon her,
All the lips that mocked at her,
Are now just demons lost in oblivion.
The clicking of their tongues, the ridicule in their voices,
Had all drowned in the glory of her pride.
She was colouring herself in the hues of blood red.
No, she wasn’t hiding herself in colours grey.
Painting her body in vermillion glaze, she was free.
Free from all the inferiority complex, the shame,
the desire to cover her curves in the folds of heavy fabric.
No more a human objectified,
No more God’s wicked sense of humour.
She was her own Masterpiece.
