Bursting forth, they surrender their seeds to unforgiving hands. The clinical white zapping away what was before. They mow a path, taking down any in their way.
And pour the hot molten liquid, the landing strip ripping out well-embedded roots. What little remains in the pale ghost of a shadow, finished off by merciles picking. It burns, the ravaged turf, screaming murder, scarred with craters.
My face is a battlefield, and cosmetic beauty has won again.
~going through my head as I lay suffering the squeezing, tweezing and waxing. Ow.
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