Of Words and Sticks and Stones

I typed it all out. In one night. All the nasty things anyone ever said to me. Every remark, every negative comment and every joke made at my expense. Each one on its own sheet of paper.
Funny, it took me a lot longer than I anticipated. Quite a stack, I’ll tell you.
When I was done, I took a stapler and a box of staples. Bought them especially, that same afternoon. Looking at the pile of paper on my desk, I wondered if one box would be enough.
It was.
When I was done, I stood in front of the mirror. Small red lines of blood streaming from the spots where staples had pierced the paper – and then my skin. Darker lines, where the blood had been sucked up by the back of the paper. A crimson drop, here and there. Not as much on the ground, thankfully.
Every negative, fucking thing someone ever said to me. Stapled to my skin, and just my eyes were visible. I looked like a goddamn mummy, with his bandages stapled on while still alive. But, I stood tall. It hurt like hell, but I stood. And I stood. For hours. It didn’t kill me. That was never the goal of this.
Taking it all off was a pain in the ass. The dried and clotted blood held on to every staple I tried to wiggle out. In the end I found it best and least painful to just rip ’em off as fast as I could. Almost passed out, but – and I’m particularly proud of that – still I stood tall.
All my wounds have healed since. It hardly shows. Only if you know what I did, you’d be able to spot the little paired dots where the staples were. And if you knew what I did, maybe – just maybe – you’d understand how powerful I feel right now. I took all those words and purposely turned them into sticks and stones. I used staples to attach them to myself in a really, really painful way, and I stood tall. And then I ripped them all off. And that hurt even more.
But they are gone now. All those words. Gone, forever. I ripped them off my skin, but I tore them out of my soul at the very same time.
Those little red dots, neatly aligned two-by-two on my skin? Those are fucking bite marks. Tiny, little scars of tiny, little vampires that tried to suck the life out of me but failed. A warning to all other blood suckers: don’t you try and inject your poison. I’ll rip it out. And I’ll stand tall doing it. And it will only make me more powerful.

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