I press the blade against my skin, its sharp edge disrupting the goosebumps that prickled along my skin.
Smooth wood carvings sprawled out at my sides, all carefully shaved and cut to match every proportion of my hideous flesh, awaiting to be of use.
From the crevice of my eyelids to the wrinkled soles of my feet, my knife shall caress every inch and corner, as to relieve my rosey flesh beneath its oppression of my dermis.
As I carefully, not delicately, peeled my skin away from the meat that sat below it, I snapped my carvings of wood together in place of where my pervasive pale hide used to be.
As I forced my birch wood shell in place over my grotesque flesh, it croaked out in frustration and defeat, from my flesh that crawled its way out through every empty cut and carve that my wooden skin didn't touch.
Frustration and agony bristled through my new fingers of kindling, the unwelcome invasion of meat that seeped through my carapace body was now burned into my eyes.
My legs rose, creaking like unsteady wooden floorboards at the mercy of man's boot. A mirror, the judge of my triumph stood a few steps away from me, eagerly calling to me, as though I was visiting an old friend.
My reflection was the last thing I saw, as my eyes garnered every hideout of sparkling red that protruded beneath the cracks where my wooden pelt didn't meet.
Faulty at best, futile at worst.
My knuckles groaned quietly as I slowly balled it into a fist, my foolish ideologies only making itself more known.
The horrific shriek of glass against wood was almost enough to distract me from the stinging in my flesh, the mirror diverging into smaller chunks and pieces as it scattered across my feet and the floor below.
Ashamed, guilty and exasperated.
I slowly crept back to my previous laying space, wanting to see the world in the eyes of what I was before, and what protrudes through me now, pestering
If I am not seen as a puppet by man then I shall not be seen by man at all.