Acrobaddict by Joe Putignano

mirror through watery vision as blood leaked from the hole. I twisted the thumbtack, and tried to wiggle it through the flesh. Finally, after four hours, it popped through to the other side. I was filled with relief and exhilaration! I was thrilled with the prize of having a green thumbtack sticking out of my nose. Now came the difficult part—I needed to remove the thumbtack and replace it with a steel hoop. I figured this was low-level surgery, and nothing was going to stop me. I poured a mixture of rubbing alcohol and hydrogen peroxide on the bloody area as a fizzy, stinging, painful wash. After I removed the thumbtack I couldn’t find the punctured hole, and a maroon-colored river rushed down my face. Sheer determination guided me in threading a hoop through the hole I had created, and I looked in the mirror, thrilled with the result of my work. This was my first physical tribute to teenage angst. As I admired my new prized possession, I thought, Well, I like it, but . . . this isn’t enough , and immediately thought about other places to pierce.
    I went to wash the blood from my face and forgot about the protruding steel and slammed my hands into my raw nose. It felt like getting punched in the face. Sleeping was impossible, as I’d roll over and wake up in stinging pain, but my identity was worth a few sleepless nights.

    The only other body part I could pierce without my parents knowing was my navel. Like a surgeon, I sterilized the area and marked the location to dissect the skin. The pain was worse than it was with the nose, and I realized this tool wasn’t sharp enough to penetrate all the epidermal layers. I searched all the sharp objects in my house that could tear through a stomach and decided on a safety pin. It had enough metal surface for my thumb to securely apply pressure. My stomach quivered as the sharp pin stuck into my flesh. The nerves of my skin sent signals to my brain begging me to stop, but I didn’t care; my pain receptors didn’t understand the things cool kids had to do. I took a deep breath and pushed the pin, slowly drilling into the dermis. A dark maroon pool filled the entrance around the safety pin and blood trickled down, reminding me of a watercolor painting I had made as a child. I was happy to have hit blood.
    My navel looked gruesome, but I continued to push into the pain like I was popping a balloon. I knew the blood meant the operation was halfway done, and I had to see it through. I held my breath and could feel tissue tearing underneath my skin. Was the laceration so intense because I was severing the mystical umbilical cord? Would that operation finally separate the son from the mother? My fingers shook as I tried to finish the job, and it seemed like the needle would never completely puncture through to the other side. The safety pin wasn’t sharp enough either, but it was all I had.
    I tried to convince myself I was a machine. I used steady pressure to complete my composition and, many agonizing hours later, tore through to the other side. The temple of my body now possessed a solid spike through its core, and I adored it. I had threaded a safety pin through my stomach and had arrived at perfection. That was my sacrifice to the gods, my own flesh and blood. Like Michelangelo, who carved away from the limestone the bits that weren’t David, I was removing the pieces of flesh that weren’t Joseph.
    My navel brought the same repercussions as my nose—gymnastics, jeans, and sleep were agonizing—but I was willing to pay the price because pain defined and symbolized me. Piercing became my new obsession. If I had been a year older, I would have covered myselfin glorious steel. I was in love with steel hoops, fascinated with the way a perfect circle with no beginning or end could go through one’s body. I loved the shine of surgical steel and the message it carried: strong, heavy, and abrupt. Once my flesh would turn to dust, those endless circles would be the only remains