Tattoo

Beat.

I am an artwork. I am a story.  My pages are turning, filling, spidery writing scrawling the beats of my life.  I am not finished.  I will never be finished.

Beat.

I am the beat of my heart.  My body is the outward expression of my inward journey.  Each tattoo strikes with a rhythm of pain overcome and autonomy regained.  Strength ever growing and determination building. Beat, and I will overcome.  Beat, and I will win.

Beat.

Betrayed, used, lied to.  Physical compatibility belied emotional vulnerability.  I was told I must separate, move away from friends.  We were fine together, but hate was all I would get from ‘outside’.

Beat.

I gave my love and he gave his hate, the hate of his friends he said, but the truth was his insecurity.  I could be with him.  Only him.

Beat.

I left him. I took back my power, and inked my mark of separation.  Chosen image to divide from his potential destruction.  Tattoo’d to reclaim my body.  I wear a different body to that which he tried to destroy.

Beat.

Self-inflicted hate of my shape, formed and incepted by those of you who told me I was wrong, defiled by my self-worth. My largesse was gross heresy to the ideal I should be wearing.

Beat.

I took my self-loathing and drew on it.  My design, a decoration worthy of me.  Needle stabbing a permanent tribute to my value.  I will give invitation-only viewings of the glory of my art, if I judge you worthy of access.

Beat.

Confident, phoenix arisen.  New design, a simple aesthetic in reflection of my passions.  A distillation of culture, of history, of curve and of shape, coalescing in perfection on the slope of my back.

Beat.

I am not your object to mould into submissive perfection.  I am my canvas to adorn as I please. Make your assumptions as I make my body my own and my soul dance all over my skin.

Beat.

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