I grew up in your tattoos.
the gentle curves of dark blue lines held me as a child. now sometimes when i can’t remember your face i color in between those lines and let the rest of it fill in. the rose on your shoulder. the fallen angel on your ankle. the heart on your hip, the cherubs on your back, ever since i was little i wanted to be that permanent.
when i got older my fingers started to itch for something to hold onto in your absence. i tried to tattoo myself but red isn’t permanent and scars fade you said, ‘wait’. and since then i have never been so impatient. i tried scratching at my own skin but found i wasn’t cut out for art so i took to using the pen instead, scrawling hundreds of over used words and when they wouldn’t flow i used red again, unable to decide on what sorts of lines i want to replace you with. i’ve taken to writing on my wrists and found a substitution for scarred skin i think i have decided. this is the tattoo that i’m going to get:
See you in Hell, scribe.
Well, I thought. Probably.
But not today.