I didn’t choose these tattoos for beauty.
Each one is a scar I asked for,
a story I could not speak, a prayer carved in ink.
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I. 月 — The First Story
The Chinese moon, pressed into my back.
I was young, defiant, too fragile to know what I was binding myself to.
I thought it was rebellion.
I thought it was ritual.
What I was really doing was making a covenant:
to follow the night and to live forever by its light.
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II. Skull & Heart — The Story of Rage & Love
A black skull crowns a blood red heart.
The same mark Billie Joe carries,but mine became more than imitation.
It became invocation.
It is rage and love.
It is light and dark.
It is death and life, bound together in one emblem.
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III. The Scorpio Glyph — The Mother’s Story
Small. Sharp. Close to the vein.
Matilda’s sign. My little Scorpion.
So fierce, so beautiful, so fragile in her own way.
This glyph is more than her constellation.
It is my vow:
that her fire and her fragility,
her sting and her light,
will always live beneath my skin, she is an forever will be my heart.
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IV. The Vined Moon — Billie’s Story
A crescent tangled in vine and shadow.
For my Billie.
So she will live with me always,
even when her light is gone from this world.
She is my moon, my companion,
the glow that carried me through nights too heavy to bear. Even in absence, she will be the moonlight of my life.
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V. Stay Weird & The Devil Horns — The Mantra’s Story
Two words: Stay Weird.
My vow never to lose myself again.
My refusal to vanish into conformity.
My lifeline when the world tried to drown me.
And, the devil horns, lifted from Halestorm’s Raise Your Horns.
I was fighting oncology,
fighting poisoned blood,
fighting a storm inside my own body.
And I beat it and them: With horns raised.
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VI. The Cracked Heart — The Broken Story
A heart cracked and bound, hanging from a noose.
My Green Day lyric made flesh.
Lessons learned : that love is the slowest form of suicide.
It is not pretty.
It is battered, broken, ugly.
But it still beats.
Because love, for me, has always been both wound and salvation.
This is not a heart at rest.
This is a heart that has been broken,
that has suffered,
that knows love is pain,
that knows love kills slowly—
and yet still chooses to love.
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Six marks. Six stories.
Not art, not decoration.
Scripture. Scar. Survival.
My requiem is written in ink.