The Ink that Stayed

Why my tattoos hold more than ink — they hold me.

They are more than just aesthetic marks.
They used to be the way I expressed
A trapped voice that could not freely speak.
The one that wanted to wear her heart on her sleeve,
But couldn't because that wasn't how she was raised,
It was not the way things were done.

But her heart craved that expression,
And so I got markings on my skin.
One, two, three... countless pieces of art on a blank canvas of skin.
Each one has a meaning, has a story.
Reminds me of a part of my past and present,
Maybe hidden hopes and dreams
Maybe reminders of who I am
The me fighting to survive.

They are my beacons of light.
They anchor me, 
Whenever I am lost.
They exist as a daily reminder
That I am still alive in my space
That I am still me.

It takes courage to mark your body like this
To overcome the pain, however temporary
To permanently etch your story,
Truths on your skin in motifs and symbols.
That only those who care will want to understand.
Want to know the story beneath.

Once upon a time it was never my expectation
Never my intention for my collection to grow.
Yet I heard it say that tattoos
Have a unique place on us.
They live and breathe in our skin
They become part of us.
And once we leave this world
So will the tattoos.
And so I become a living piece of art.

My story is unique...
And so is yours.