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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1104901
Rated: E · Poetry · Personal · #1104901
The call of my tweezers, a grooming compulsion
One by one,
I pluck them out.
A splinter of a strand
rests between my tweezers,
dark as seal skin with a bulbous cuticle.

Whether on my legs or stomach,
I pluck them out.
I hold the hairs to the light
and admire the sheen
of the cocoa-colored shafts.

I lay the hairs
upon my skin, dark brown on tan.
I grasp my tweezers
and search for more sprouts,
ignoring the twinges from where I tweezed before.

The next morning I awaken
to burning skin, swollen from the tugs
on my twine-like hairs.
Once tan skin glows salmon pink
even if it feels silky to the touch.

I grasp my tweezers and
throw them away,vowing never
to torture my skin that way again.
Minutes later, I paw in the trash
and dig out those tiny tongs.

I notice new sprouts
which erupted overnight,
pushing past my skin only for me to pluck,
to irritate my skin, but I can't resist
examining all those hairs in the light.
© Copyright 2006 Elisa, Stik 20K! (soledad_moon at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1104901