I was supposed to get my nipples pierced today, but have to wait until Friday now. I have had them done before, years ago, but took them out (don’t ask) and now it just feels like time again — I’m not currently lactating, and this year has been one of numerous bereavements and griefs. Two bars, with red gems like blood drops, inspired by Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber:
‘The Marquis’s wedding gift to the French woman is his grandmother’s two-inch wide choker of rubies which was created after the French Revolution, as a gesture of defiance, to signify that she had escaped the guillotine.’
When my grandmother died mid-year I had an urge to get my nipples pierced again, another matriarch gone, another bosom turned to dust. Then Mandy, and that beautiful photo of her, braless under her soft white shirt. After that, Cayte. Cayte of the Cleavage, busty Cayte, Cayte bursting out of corsets. Breast cancer Cayte.
For all I love getting so many other parts poked, I don’t actually even like getting my nipples pierced. I’m scared and nervous and kind of sick at the thought, but it needs to be done. Not only for them, but for the end of the first full thesis draft, a story of my breasts and my milk and my performance and my sorrow and my reincarnations and my hope.
On a similar note, I came across this site, The Art of Mourning, ‘a dedication to mourning, memorial and sentimental jewellery, funeralia and art.’ I have long loved mourning jewellery, locks of hair and lockets full of photos, and wore my friend’s nipple ring through my ear for years after he died. At this year’s Day of The Dead, I took it out and let him go. But these piercings are for him too.