I used to want tattoos.

I was one of those kids who’d ink up their arms in grade school, scrawling all over with doodles and words and phrases. In high school I used to cover my hands in the titles of my favorite songs, the names of my favorite authors and poets, quotes from my favorite books. I guess it kept me grounded, in a way. My hands are the most important parts of me and to look down at them and see the words that meant most to me – words that convinced me to survive – I dunno, it was comforting. 

But things change. 

I know some people get tattoos to mark eras in their lives; remember important places, feelings, people, events, influences, whatever. 

But me? No, I think I’m much better off leaving shit behind. 

I don’t want these memories. 

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