lobotomy in the form of pierced ears

by Brigid McCarthy

right before he pierced my ears, the man told me

"women are built to handle pain"

and when he said it i felt strong
but are women also built to inherit it?
like grandma's guilt in the attic

smelling of death and old doves.

some heirlooms we simply don't ask for, and try tirelessly to get rid of.
her rusting blue tea kettles,
our quietly screamed lobotomies, pitch to break glass

I clean them out and my hands

turn pink, pink like hot embarrassment—

as the needle pierced my lobe,
i felt the pain secondhand, like a mother watching her child get hit by her father
and being too afraid to say anything for her own sake.
secondhand, yet
self-inflicted. the needle was really in my hand all along, wasn’t it?

"done," the man said, covering the blood with a fake diamond.