shankha

about piercings, because I love them but I don't know why

A reason for these

eight daintily and delicately decorated

needle holes and gun wounds

in these thin-thick flesh-bone ears

was not among the clot of thoughts

whenever I sat there, same chair, same prayer,

building anticipation for the mighty catharsis.

Jokingly, we said we craved the pain.

Some say rebellious impulse, maybe. 

Some say to externalise the internalised 

suffering in the form of

something beautiful.

Or, maybe, to convince a someone, 

whose gaze is caught by the shiny titanium

when my hair is no longer the curtain that

shields my face

that I can endure it all, that I am

victorious! of some war

that will look like a trivial battle,

in several years, in my bathroom mirror reflection.