Pin Pricked

Anisha Narain

Content warning: suicide

A knock on my door takes the belt off
my neck tonight. I wasn’t expecting a sound

or a reminder of my own breath. I open the door
and start the dishes. Cleaning has a healing

power of its own—I forgot. I forget a lot
when I’m living above the world. Like how warm

the sun pulses, or how well water calms.
I can only tread the memory of everything

you and I have worn around our necks. Hangers,
cords, straps of purses we despised. Never belts.

I watched as you threw yours away,
the only kindness you spared for yourself.

I can only taste my heart beating faster
in my chest, still hammering even though

I don’t have to make sure you made it
through the day anymore. I still worry

sometimes. What things are you putting
in your body, what people have you let in

to your yawning heart. Who else have
you left a pin pricked balloon, bursting

open over and over and over again.