Counting Scars

We’re counting scars under the skin.
This is where your father told you
you would never amount to anything –
just below your right temple.
I place my hand over my throat –
here is all my mother’s shouting,
at times I feel it – like a rope.
The whole of my skin bears the mark
of all the eyes and hands
who felt they had a right to it –
it is the skin of Indra –
the thousand exposed yoni –
and, unlike you, he would not understand.
Your turn again –
On your back, between your shoulder blades,
is where your friend became a stranger –
it wasn’t all of a sudden –
and so it felt less like a stabbing
and more like a push.
When you’re done talking
you take my hand
and place it over your heart.
I place your hand over mine
and we stay quiet
just for a little while.
Listen –
The heart is a riflebird –
and so at times it growls
but most of the time it sings.
The heart is pomegranate
that can only grow
when you let someone else feed. Thought Catalog Logo Mark


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