When I was 22 I saw The Suicide Girls website for the first time and thought, that’s who I want to be.
I want to be tattooed.
I want to have memories, warnings, art, parts of me, on me. For other people to see. Or not to see, depending on how I felt. It felt powerful.
I had little doubt that I might regret covering my body in ink, but I did once mention to a tattoo artist, seeking approval, that a design I’d thought of was unlikely to cause regret when I was 60.
His thoughts were that if that’s all I had to worry about when I was 60, then I’d be doing very well.
It’s just skin. It’s just a body. My body. Mine.
I claimed parts of myself that I’d once hated with colour and if you don’t like it, I don’t care.