Sculpting Flesh

A soldering wire pushed into the skin, the bubbling, crackling burning of hair, scents of a barbecue, roasting pork, hazy blue smoke, fascia stripped bare. A razor blade slash and the welling of blood, staining the steel with a crimson hue, slicing enough to maim, not to kill, a badge made of scars for the cutting crew. Is a change to the flesh a change to the soul, either deconstruction or reconstruction? Reinvention of self into something else, or a playpen stab at mock self-destruction? It’s a cry for help or it’s body art, or it’s self expression in other ways; or it’s seeking attention or fooling around, a mindset for life or a transient phase. Sculpting the flesh to let the pain breathe, to shock, to relieve, for something to do, no matter how scarred or disfigured the canvas when it all comes down you are still left with you.