When you pulled the strings, I craved nothing but the taste of broken bones. Cracks carved, eased into every fragile component of this sack called a body.
Broken things stayed different from before, unable to return, but in that state Dremia hoped each crack it left would make her into something better. Something comfortable.
Flesh possessed enough softness to make it all easier. Whenever it brought her nails to her skin and carved in new symbols, she sat back and melted from pain and satisfaction under the veil of unknown.
When you were nothing, you’d become everything.
When you were nothing, no one noticed a sound. A shame, no one appreciated the work it did to make her better—more of a form she could tolerate. But alas, the greatest masterpieces melted into obscurity. Some said for discovery, later, but she always hated that concept—and so did the thing that drove her towards such change.
No, a perfect being was one known by no one.
And so, night after night—another snapped bone, scars carved into skin, and soon, into flesh and organs. Cut so finely the incisions healed over and created a perfect canvas of life. What screamed so more, than the pain that kept you tethered to it?
And with all that effort, at the end of this wonderful period of creation, she stood in front of a mirror—it forced her to. All this time, she wondered how the thing that crafted her in such a way felt about the body it stole. Thought it’d never know—Dremia would always be thankful.
Even when it stopped pulling the strings, she continued to carve.
It did nothing but watch.
All eyes.
On its beautiful creation.
All agony, all created. All love, in this self, the unself and the myself newly made.