She had been collecting her tattoos for a while. It had felt increasingly important for her truth to be etched upon her skin in indelible ink so she could not forget.
The semi-colon on the inside of her left wrist, accompanied by the words “My story Isn’t Over” integrated the knife scars from a desperate night in her teens when the empty desolation had almost obliterated her. It was her tribute to her survival.
On the inside of her right wrist, “I Write for Fear of Silence.” A poet, she must always remember and resist the smothering silence that once tried to steal her voice. She must continue to spin her truth onto paper, onto the screen, shout into the wind, “I am.”
The dahlias covered the left side of her back, reminding her of that beauty that existed within and without.
On her right thigh read, “We define ourselves by the best that is in us, not the worst that has been done to us.” This is where the bruise of his hand print had lasted for months after the brutality. She painstakingly reclaimed this territory for herself.
Today’s ink had been designed by her lover, Eila, the woman with the exotic green eyes and dark hair and skin who understood and loved both her strength and her fragility. Her fierceness and her tears. Eila had said to her “The others are to remind you. This is to remind both of us of my promise, my pledge to you.” The words carefully inscribed into her skin, under her rib cage, below her heart read “Love Me Till I Am Me Again”