Fiberglass.
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I felt like I was laying on a bed of pointed pins.
They dug in my thighs, my arms, my shoulders.
Why was this happening, repayment for my sins?
I couldn't get up, my legs felt like boulders.
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My clothes, my clothes, that's it!
I changed into some old jean shorts.
It made it worse, I have to admit.
So I changed into the clothes they use on basketball courts.
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It wouldn't stop, so I made a scene.
I cried for it to go away.
It felt like I forgot to wear green,
on this year's St. Patrick's day.
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Maybe I can wash it out.
I showered, and showered, and showered.
In my distress, I wanted to pout.
In this battle, the fiberglass towered.
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I finally changed into a loose dress.
My clothes wouldn't rub against my skin.
After awhile, I felt like a mess.
At least this would stop it rubbing it in.
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It seemed to slow, but not quite stop.
At least it wasn't as bad as before.
At least it wasn't over the top.
At least-- Oh wait, did I mention Fiberglass is a metaphor?
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Fiberglass.
Points: 319
Reviews: 2
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