Sup y’all? Figured I’d write ya’ll another blog post. Honestly though this is just a type up of some poetry I wrote a good while ago. So here y’all go. I present My Arms Are Tattooed.
My arms are tattooed, not with ink. No, with skin etched like weather-cracked stone. With painful memories of glinting, silver steel. Bleeding through like the pages of a well-worn paperback novel. Still suffering from water damage.
My arms are tattooed with the list of my sins. A cut here, a slash there. Nothing too big, nothing too fancy. Can’t have them see too much. Need to make sure nobody knows the true extent of the damage.
The silence isn’t actually so quiet… The silence is deafening. Being locked in a minor’s psych ward with nothing but your thoughts for company.
The ancestral ghost of fear lingers on, refusing to release its icy grip on my heart. Fear of non-understanding, fear of rejection, fear of being avoided. I wish the blind would turn their eyes to see but one thing. That thing; that person is me.
Here I stand at last. Like William Wallace, Maximus, Spartacus, and hundreds more. Free. Yes, my arms are tattooed; yet not with ink. My arms are tattooed with the ink of experience , of tears, and of scars.
Some self-inflicted, others through heartbreak. Yet all of them stand as monolithic reminders. Reminders that I am NOT bound by the stains of my past. They have no power to bind me. My arms are tattooed.
Holy Water, Burning Man 