An Ode to a Black Rose.
My Black Rose.
I think 4 months of black Nail Polish was necessary and productive but lacking progression. The color breeds compulsive ruminating, so I ruminated compulsively and tangibly about my relationship with the color and got a new tattoo last night.
It Was A Coverup
A coverup of my very first tattoo–14 years ago.
It Was A Memorial Tattoo
For my father who’s birthday is fast approaching: May 25th. He’s been gone for 14 years, as of January 12th, 2018–2 days after I started this blog.
It Was Terribly Misaligned
My uncle used to be a phenomenal tattoo artist in Kansas City, KS. He was supposed to give me my first tattoo, as he did fir my sisters, 2 years prior to my turning 18. Then dad died, 26 days after my 18th birthday and my uncle fell into methamphetamines.
The Artist Was An Apprentice
And I was a young girl, passionate for her first tattoo. I had the fever at an early age, before the first needle ever touched my skin. It was on my neck, so I didn’t notice how uneven it was until I got my first big piece on my back: circa 2013-14.
That heart will soon take on black shades; pink will never suit me again–except in bits. I have conspired against pink. This tattoo once symbolized my ex-fiancé, stitching up my broken heart. But it didn’t even know what broken was, until I walked away from him.
Everything may not be “black and white”
But what if we allow red in?