Emily needs the words to understand that she isn't being unreasonable. She just wants them to mean something and not be a string of words which flows into itself over and over again.
She doesn't like her name either. Not because Emily isn't a pretty name but because she would rather be called something she feels like. (She has never quite forgiven her parents for choosing her name for her.) If she could, she would call herself Glass, because that is what she wakes up feeling like every morning. As if crystallised pieces of glass are edible and her insides tingle as she swallows them whole.
Emily lets the words call her names sometimes. She writes them on her knees so that she can remember them. Sometimes the words call her a whore, and sometimes stupid, and sometimes a loser and sometimes a tramp (She has never learnt that loving too much is a crime and boys with pretty eyes sometimes lie.). She sits in the bathroom with a pen the colour of blood and writes them carefully so that the next day's shower can't wash them away completely.
Emily is like Glass. She likes the way the words cut into her skin and leave their impressions on her heart. People have slipped and let her fall again and again. But she still wakes up in the morning and superglues herself back together.
The trouble with superglue is you will always see the cracks (Because we all know that broken glass can never ever really be whole again.)