She was not called a fat whore. If she had been, it would have been easy to shrug off, as she is neither overweight nor promiscuous. She was not called an insensitive bitch. While either insensitive or bitch might independently be true, once in a great while, she knows they do not occur simultaneously. There is an element of truth behind those words, though not enough of one to give her much pause at all.
If this had been the case, if there had been no supporting truth, she might have been able to dismiss the remarks as outbursts, spoken without much, if any, thought. The words were forged in facts, intended to slice to the bone. She still bleeds.
The words that were said to her, were those she often spoke to herself in silence, and the cruelest thing she believes. She thought she had been successful, keeping this flaw under control, minimized. She now knows it has been tattooed on her forehead all along.
She is naked. She is ashamed. She is the embodiment of the words. Her thin facade of confidence decaying, all but destroyed. She wants to hide.
She already believed the words before they were spoken. She cannot dismiss them. She knows they are immutable. All the more damaging because she is powerless.
She still hears the words, fresh and clear, as if the reverberations of them were still hanging in the air. They have become the filter through which she expects to be seen. They color all of her actions. She expects her acts to be awash with the truth of the words, as indelible as if she had bathed in them. She does not understand why she continues to try when flecks of color besmirch everything she does.
She finds the weight of the words crushing. They grow heavier with the passage of time. She goes about her days pretending that she is just fine. Pretending that the truth is something from which one can recover. Pretending that she has recovered. Pretending she is not being reduced to powder beneath the grinding weight of those awful words.