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I went to get my back waxed, and later, when describing the event
to a friend, part of this description tumbled out. I expanded
it into a short poem. It reflects the reality fairly closely.
She waxes my back, paints it on then rips it off.
I think of the women at whose hands I've suffered
as the hair is ripped from my back and the blood flows.
I took no drugs to feel the pain at its fullest
while thinking of those sources of mental anguish
dwarfing the searing pain of ripped hair and flayed skin.
Life is pain, a mantra we should well remember.
As our hearts will be ripped out we can only hope
that the hurt will be over quickly, leaving us
but still leaving behind the scars of memory.
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