She had a wart on her back that she hated, because she thought it was ugly, and she thought having something as a part of her made her ugly, as well. It was a small, brown, bulbous wart, out of sight except when she observed it in the mirror, and barely noticeable to others. At first.
She hated that wart, and so she abused it. She liked to cut it, slicing it in half so that it bled. She wanted to punish her imperfection. She liked to damage it and hurt it, thinking that somehow, if she did, it would learn how horrible it was. It didn’t matter to her that she harmed herself in the process, so long as she caused the wart pain.
It grew, when she cut it. Everytime it healed, it had gained another millimeter of circumference. She growled and screamed at it, lacerating it with needles and knives. It became uglier, more twisted, growing to the size of the first knuckle of her thumb, and then larger still. One could see it protruding beneath her shirt.
Yet she never cut it off, or had it removed. So deep was her desire to make it suffer for ruining her perfect flesh that she only continued to harass it. In defiance of her loathing, it grew and grew until it entirely consumed her, and she was nothing but the wart: a great, scarred, discolored lump of flesh that rolled around, disgusting all who drew within sight.