Yesterday my friend was over and we were talking about tattoos. She already has four and they all represent something that she loves and is passionate about. I’ve been wanting one for a few years and she knows that. This winter she’s getting a fifth one and wants me to go get my first one with her.
I of course, coming from an anti hair color, tattoo, piercing family, am nervous as hell. I have an idea of what I want and she is doing a sketch for me. It would be a simple black and white quill ink pen with a script on it. The script is from a song by one of my favorite bands. The song is the song that I would listen to in school, and even now, when I would be feeling like shit. And where I want to get it is just as important. It would be on the inside of my left ankle and would be over the spot I used to scratch words into with a pin. Yes, I was that girl in school, but few people knew it. My family wasn’t part of that world for me, and I would never tell them. They think I try to be dysfunctional and dark as it is. I don’t need to be told I belong in a mental hospital more than I already am.
Beautiful lyrics can cover where hurtful words once stung. Whore, betrayal, skank will be forgotten. It’s my way of forgetting and accepting the past is the past and I can be happier in the future.
My father saw the quill I drew on my ankle with eyeliner and starting running his mouth. My brother joined of course. They were saying how trashy it is and that a lot of great people that I’m friends with have them. He then started saying that there’s something wrong with them and that someday they’ll realize what dumb ass’s they are.
Nothing I do ever pleases them. Now I am feeling like shit, wishing that I was something they’d be proud of, and hating myself for thinking that way.