My dad always tells me about his mother’s naani (my great great grandmother?) and how she used to have her piercings all around her ear. badass.
HELL FUCKING YEAH. THIS IS WHAT COLONIALISM AND “POSTCOLONIALISM” ARE DOING TO US. MAKING US FUCKING ASHAMED FOR ALL OF OUR SHIT.
MY GREAT-GRANDMA HAD THIS SHIT AND TATTOOS AND EVERYTHING. NOW “LOOKING LIKE A TRIBAL” IN MIDDLE CLASS INDIA IS SEEN LIKE A PROBLEM
I GOT LIKE 11 PIERCINGS AND A TATTOO
FUCK WITH ME
My grandmother has more tattoos than piercings, on her stomach, her right leg and up her arms.
Now every Nigerian parent wants to act like tattoos are evil and demonic, when in some cases their parents have tattoos.
that’s why i just hate it when people act as if body art is something so white or so “backwards”. your parents probably had some, their parents too.
when they act like our POC skin cant take it. and theyre the end all be all subjects for all bodymods. you just gotta laugh at the absurdity of whiteness.
always adorn yo culture on your skin.
fuck those fools who make you feel shameful
kamakhya, devi of pleasure, sexuality, khwaish, “chand ka pani”-begum
when i gave flowers to the ocean last tuesday, she rejected all but one.
disidentifications, jose muñoz
I felt my body sigh like a flower opening into the sun
it was always like this whenever you touched me
my body may be dirty but my mouth is a clean mouth
and your forehead, an expansion of veins
your forehead, like a map of train lines
our legs over lapping like train lines
on a map
show me where your father is on a map
show me how far you travelled to look like him
on my body I can show you pockmarks
scars from things I should have never touched
and stretch marks
again like our legs, like the veins on your forehead
when you’re above me and your eyes are closed buds
like your father jumping borders on maps
this is what my body looks like naked
over lapping from a distance
mottled skin from tight bras and leather belts
you can fake my skin into constellations
you can fake me into beauty
you can tell me I’m worth loving
but at my peak I’m sapling
only coming alive when you touch me.
Haruki Murakami (via inner-majic)