skin

My grandmother traced Kannadasan's poetry across my palm, whispering verses about beauty beyond mirrors. Years later, I uploaded a self-portrait—raw, unfiltered skin glowing beneath lamplight. Comments flooded in, strangers offering small cash rewards for my "aesthetic." But I recognized something deeper: connection threading through pixels, recognition of the soul beneath surface. That night, I printed the photograph and placed it beside grandmother's worn poetry collection. She smiled, understanding perfectly. We're both artists, she'd always said. Our skin carries stories—Tamil words etched in memory, traditions blooming like henna patterns. Sometimes community finds us through unexpected channels, reminding us we've never been truly alone.