“If the words you spoke appeared on your skin, would you still be beautiful?”
I am a wordsmith, the kind of artist that takes a word, values its meaning, its trueness, and its purpose with such delicacy that when combined with other truth-saying words, they become distinct expressions of a reality that cannot be undone or ignored. My words are like a surgeon’s scalpel that, when used with sensible precision, they can penetrate with the subtlety required to leave only a tiny mark (for scars can fade, but not be erased) and promote the healing powers of a gentle hand. But sometimes my words can be akin to a sledge hammer, recklessly slamming into relationships with such brutal force that they bludgeon through priceless, porcelain-doll friendships that could never be mended or replaced. There is no delicacy or healing in these words; only the destruction that follows the outpouring of untethered, raw emotions desperate to explode.
These crippling words are ever so often the ones that are seared upon people’s hearts like iron brands burnt into their souls, and no matter how sedulous my subsequent words may be, the apologies that spill like contrite balsam upon igneous resentment no longer carry healing in their expression, but pain and heartbreak. The once careful wordsmith has erred in the delivery of her message, and, hence, has lost her license to practice. So now, having hurt those whom she loves the most with the most savage weapon of her words, the ascetic artist stitches an ignoble letter A upon her unwelcoming bosom.