Rules of Tattoos
A life view of tattoos turned by grief
I used to tell myself that I had rules about tattoos. That I had to at-least have them easily hidden, the thought, mainly was in a wedding dress. Here’s the thing; I used to picture myself getting married, in a wedding dress with my tattooed ribs, feet and fingers seductively but secretly hidden.
I used to picture my dad walking me down the aisle. I used to think I’d be fooling everyone. His tats hidden too, but fierce, a story that tells his past- my past. His probably grey comb over and hopefully a re-convincing of his 80s handlebar mustache that I adored.
Rules don’t matter when everything falls apart. I can’t even picture myself in wedding dress even if I tried.
I sat behind my closet door perfectly aligning randomly lost then found paper hole punch pieces seemingly peacefully, just about ten minutes after I got that phone call.
That changed the rules.
Two feet away from-now an instant stranger I had been dating for the better half of the year.
What rules?
In those moments of what seemed to be the last calm I can remember I chucked the fucking rules.
I’ve been on the go ever since. If I stop I will break, I know this for sure I’ve seen it. Small glimpses of slowness in a bottle of Jameson or some drinks with friends is truly a cause for disaster.
So, my shoes don’t come off until midnight and I sleep with my light on most times, if ever I sleep at all. Proudly enough I’ve taught myself a trick to wake from night terrors. Shake your head until your body releases from its paralysis so you can fight fear with fire or some bullshit like that. 3am panic stricken wake ups move to cigarettes outside on a hammock in the rain.
Well, That instant stranger is a common thing now, there have been many if not all. The disconnect is quite real still and as many times as you can say “hey I think I need to talk to you” or “yea let’s chat another time” you’ll never own up to the fact that, like the pieces of hole punched paper, your heart is not whole.
See there are no rules in life or death.
So, when people ask if the tattoos that I’ve covered my body with in the last year after my Dad’s death hurt. I just think how every day is another day to sit through this pain, what’s a few more hours?
