writing

In Its Grip

I wish on the pink butterfly outside that all goes well.

They try to make it pleasant, calming colors and soft robes.

The room is dimly lit, not bright and sterile.

But still, it isn’t a fun experience.

Maybe this time no tears fall from being pulled,

tugged and smashed six ways to Sunday.

The imaging engine whirrs aloud as it takes its pictures.

Shifting, changing positions, once more the vise grip takes hold.

Skin stretching, hugging the machine which is causing discomfort.

Four cycles in all, two for each mound of flesh.

Relief comes as the machine finally releases its hold.

Hopefully done for another three years…the wait for results begins.

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