Pashmina

Will you give me your pain?

your precious pain that you hold onto so dearly,

more dearly than that you hold onto your little happiness.

Your pain,

that you have weaved into a pristine pashmina,

that you have folded into cascading layers of a waterfall,

and snuck it away into the little corners of your eyes.

Tell me, would you show me that pain?

let me touch it, hold it and feel it?

No?

What makes you so selfish about your pain?

Tell me, does it keep you strong at night?

Tell me, does it softly echo your memories?

Tell me, does it turn away your blue silences?

Tell me.

But…

I will be careful with it.

I will not let it peep out of my eyes,

Nor will I let it tremble through my cheeks.

I will not let it walk on my tongue,

Nor will I let it rattle through my veins.

Maybe?

I will save it. I will hide it, carefully.

I will cram it in the void between my bones and flesh

Neither will I slyly relish it,

Nor will I angrily devour it

I will simply sink it in the sea that lies between your words and my songs.

.

.

.

So, tell me, Will you give me your pain?

Skin.

I like picking the skin--

that lies in the slim trench beside my nail,

I peel it away methodically,

knowing the tricks of the trade.

One layer peeled away,

I wait for it to become sensitive,

one little dig at the corner and it turns into a fresh red cherry.

How I see it ripen! ready to be plucked and felt.

A smooth pain starts at the crescent of my nail

isn’t it almost liquidy, this kind of pain?

so little yet so filling! fills up my entire body’s need

to feel something.

I dig at it, this tiny area of inconsequential skin,

with little stabs, like a dog searching for a hidden bone

little doses of pain rises, filling my heart’s hunger

to feel something.

While I feed on these juices,

Reason tracks my level of idiosyncrasy,

Am I normal? Is this normal!?

this sudden fervor need to feel something?

Just then,

tantalizingly, a rich apple of agony dangles in front of me

almost tangible,

and my heart wants to lecherously suck on its curve.

It envelops me in its wistful presence,

little by little, every inch of me is covered

almost molten, my skin-hot, is dipped in torment.

That small little pain now seeps into my skin all over,

assuredly, it sits in…it sets in.

And, I am appeased.

Now,

Tell me,

Is it Skin I am wearing or Pain?