What are some good similes for pain?
Alright. Alright, I’ll give it a shot, but I’m going to slip some metaphors in the mix. If you see one you want to upgrade to a simile, try it – but I bet you see why I left it as a metaphor.
Some good similes for pain. I’m just going to run with it. Some of these will be winceworthy, no doubt.
- His tooth sang out like a silent alarm – steadily growing in volume.
- His aggrieved balls mourned inwardly, shocked and dismayed at the sudden extent of her unexpected kneed. That’s horrible. Cancel that.
- “My bra’s being a bitch today,” she observed, wincing thoughtfully like someone trying to come up with an apt descriptor for her pain, only employing “like” or “as.”
You know what? Neither 2 nor 3 qualify. This numbered list business isn’t helping. Let me just clear the mind and…let the pain similes come openly. Freely. Without number.
Also, those were too wordy, too. You didn’t ask complete sentences! Just the comparisons, buddy! Okay. Concentrate, annn-n-nd…loose
the pain was like a knife in the gut
the pain was like a knife in the ass
the pain was as a knife in the hand
Hm. Those were all complete sentences, bro. Low-caps and no-punct isn’t fooling anyone! That last one’s kind of ambiguous, though: a knife in the hand. Like it! Like it. there were shooting pains like a knife in the hand as he fired his gun up a one last stand
Dang it, I just suck at this tonight. Normally I’m pretty okay at the figures of speech. Maybe it’s the pain?
Hm. Maybe pain is not my muse. All I’m getting is dumb ones.
You know what? I feel like I do not describe pain by comparison.
I think it’s possible it feels like a jokey, distancing element. Affected and self-indulgently literary. I think with pain: immediacy. That’s what’s wanted.
But let’s go nuts just in case.
Feel free to quit reading anywhere along the way below, because folks, here comes an I don’t know what kinda ride:
Pain bored into her skull with a yawn as she tried to recall what she’d done to deserve it. Something fun. Meanwhile she busied her little hands up and down his clothes in an automatic magic trick that worked every time – but left him tingling and somewhat the worse for wear, wincing in sympathy with her poor head, except for him it was little shooting stars, shooting sparking white heat, burning ache and sizzling flinch running up and down his inner aural network in waves like an incipient neurological condition. He ignored it as they both said “YES” in an explicit and quite forward manner. “DAMN!” she said as they each enthusiastically initiated and began. “OW!” he returned. “Are we sure this is the right time? Do you think we’re coming down with the covid?” they both queried in synchrony – but what the hell, they were two too far into it by then and somehow, it meant too much. As they got to work and frothed it up to a ripping pitch, the pain was like busy gnomes industrially working them each in seams, seamily working nerves and veins for bright semi-precious pain like ore, in colors they’d never seen before, nor soon to forget. He either was being ridden by a stallion of pain or he was one – his every lurching and haunching sinew whinnying and crying out “neigh!” She on the other hand had a pounding in her head like she couldn’t believe, offset by a similar one elsewhere which was more like a burro or burrito than a “stallion of pain” honestly, but she felt sure she could break it and come out on top – vwoop! Up and over she goes and on we go! Why were they both doing this? Clearly they were not well. Yet it seemed as if some unspoken accord of esteem had been struck and reached between them, like this grinding and teeth-gritting-towards-excruciating-joy-&-release ordeal was some important, whimsical and totally gratuitous demonstration of mental toughness and emotional perseverance, atcha & back atcha – and it was by no means clear who was who. It meant they had what it takes to pull ridiculous, showoff erotic stunts for no reason – well, that was something. But the arrays and panoplies of pain between and through their joined form(s) had reached the point where the pain was like a clown car, disgorging its endless and increasingly unwelcome load of clowns cavorting in and all through the three-ring circus of their increasingly, needlessly acrobatic coupling. What was wrong with them!? They had to be unwell. It seemed like working towards working itself out well, though. The pain they increasingly focused and shared was increasingly like a child’s sore, loosening tooth, fascinating and beguiling hurt you just want to poke poke poke with your intrepid tongue until