They were my weapon of choice.
Words cut deep, words wound, but mix words with blades and you have the perfect weapon.
They say Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me – they’re wrong.
It wasn’t even what others said, lost amid my world, inside my own head, is what brought me down.
There were words, plenty of them, but they were mine. No one else uttered them; no one else spoke them, but me. Words simmered below the surface, whispering and murmuring, digging and muttering, piercing and cutting. They moved through my bloodstream, through my veins, seizing and taking hold inside my brain – until they cut like knives, like blades determined to bury themselves deep within.
Nothing could dislodge them and their commitment to destroy was flawless, and they worked into my wounds like burrowing wasps brandishing scalpels. No parry was enough to deflect and I was soon forced to choose my own weapon.
I would dig them out, thrust and plunge, and drive my own blades deep. And I did.
I gouged and lanced and met those words until they flowed like red silk, until they ran and poured like rivers of crimson, until they gushed in cascades of scarlet ribbons, and I could hold them no more.
They say words don’t hurt.
The second picture, by Andy Bate, was last week’s prompt and certainly sat alongside this week’s for me.
Write up to 750 words inspired by the prompt photograph.