One thing I've always found beautiful are tattoos. They have held a strong fascination over me since I was six, and I would spend hours planning out my future ink. Full sleeves of the butterfly or bottle fly metamorphosis, hibiscus growing over my hips, an old school sparrow for each new birth, full back of spirals designed by a friend, peacock with tail feathers spreading down thigh. The only ink I have is the Capricorn symbol on my ankle, and a prison star on my wrist.
I got the Capricorn one two months after my grandmother died. Her birthday was two days after mine, so we were both Capricorns. Also tied into the symbol are the numbers 6 and 7. She was 67 when I was born, so I thought that most appropriate. My star was the result of alcohol and boredom. I wanted a star to commemorate Dorothy Parker, so I used a sanitized needle and India ink to tattoo it into my wrist. Hence why I call it my prison tat.
Every time I look at my ink, or someone else's ink, I feel that wistful longing. With just a taste of the body as canvas, I'm completely hooked. Currently, I'm trying to convince a friend to draw a hibiscus I can get on my hips. Large, bold, red petals. Proud stamen. Unfurling across my pale flesh.
I can't wait for the next appointment.
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