Her ink was not merely art.

It was her truth, her history, etched upon her skin in indelible ink.

“I’m Still Breathing” coupled with a semi-colon on the inside of her left wrist integrated knife scars from desperate nights when the pain, loneliness and desperation almost won.  A tribute to survival.

“I Write for Fear of Silence” marked the inside of her right wrist.  Calling herself poet, she resisted the smothering silence that had tried to steal her voice.  Continuing to spin truth onto paper, onto the screen, shouting into the wind, “I am.”

The peonies covering the left side of her back, reminding her beauty that existed within and without.

Her right thigh read: “We define ourselves by the best that is in us, not the worst that has been done to us.”  This was where the bruise of his hand print had lasted for months after the brutality.  She painstakingly and defiantly reclaimed this territory.

The most recent tattoo had been designed with her lover, who understood and loved both her strength and her fragility.  The fierceness and the tears.  She now knew that no matter how lost she became, she was strong and would persevere.  It was a promise of faith they both committed to.

The words carefully inscribed into her skin, under her rib cage, below her heart read “Love Me Until I Am Me Again”


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