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For an hour straight, I laid there as his needles drilled into my back, sweat laced my body in tiny beads, my hands were clenched together, as were my teeth in anticipation of further pain. He bent over me with his dark brooding eyes, his long ponytail, his full lips pursed in concentration under a goatee shadow. Heavy metal music soothed my ears, matched my tough-girl mood. I was proud of my stoic demeanor. My blood ran cool and soothing in little trickles as he tenderly wiped it off and I felt ill watching him toss the red-tinged paper towels away. I felt flushed and my arms shook as they held my torso up off the exam chair. My foot jiggled and I closed my eyes, breathing hard, muscles tensed. I won't lie about it. Getting a tattoo hurt, but not near as much as a few harsh words uttered from your mouth. I can withstand a lot of physical pain, but I can't bear the thought that I matter so little to you. Honey, that hurts. Lori Beal Vote for this poem
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