Writers Row

They say that the skin that you are in defines who you are. So I took a knife and tried to claw away that definition  I let the knife trail down me and inch through layers but no blood came. Inside I saw blurred visions of red. Yet still no blood came. My skin was on fire, heat sore through me. Yet still no blood came. Voices pounded down on me, pleading me to slice deeper, cut harder. Yet still no blood came. Perforations puckered where the silver metal danced. Yet still no blood came. The voices got stronger demands more brutal. I fell into their spell until I was lost. The knife printing the lyrics to the song of my soul. Crimson petals adorned my body, washing me, encasing me. The scars are constant reminders that I hold the key to my destiny. That I have control.