Quiero verte,
tenerte de frente.
Verte a los ojos
y estremecerme.
Que sin tocarte me pongas nerviosa
y que al tocarte sientas mis nervios
por mis manos temblorosas.
Quiero besarte,
ver tus lunares -tus más lindos tatuajes-.
Susurrarte lo que siento por ti
y todo lo que me haces sentir.
Quiero verte,
quiero un roce.
—  Quiero un roce, Erika Boté

this christmas is the first one
she feels okay with eating cookies and
even though it’s still a serious struggle
two years ago she would have wept
for a calorie intake she now sees is
not too heavy but
perfect, healthy,

and maybe the sky gets dark quickly these days and
the world is cold and some of her clothes
don’t fit anymore but

today she went out shopping with friends
and didn’t panic when they stopped for dinner and
only thought about how happy her family will be
when they see what she got them

and maybe the battle isn’t exactly over
but last night in the car, she was able to talk about her sickness
and not dodge the fact that she has been in recovery
for a terrible illness and maybe she still snaps at him sometimes
when the voices get loud again
but he is no longer scared of
losing her to her
empty demons

listen little light of mine
no matter how dark the cave of your body gets
one day you’ll be able to enjoy
the holidays

—  phoenix. // r.i.d

a man grabbed me by the arm and jerked me towards him today,
and when i pushed him away from me, he was incredulous. he said he just wanted to see my tattoos,
to see how they felt,
and the fact that i didn’t appreciate it made him confused.

a woman saw me walking in her direction and steered her child away from me.
she clasped her like i was some sort of criminal, her eyes were angry.

i’ve heard “why would you do that to yourself” to “i like it” to condemning me to the fires of hell.
once one of my coworkers tried to kiss me when i gave him a ride home, groping my breasts and thighs and i said “what the hell are you doing?”
he sat back, offended. he said he thought i was that kind of girl,
that i liked having things inside of me because
i chose to let needles touch me.

a man said the other day, “i don’t do drugs or get tattoos, i’m a good guy”,
like everyone’s artwork somehow tied them to a life of drug use,
like that makes them less of a “good” person, whatever that exactly is.

my family disowned me when i started wearing my skin like my soul,
they told me of an article they had read that said people with tattoos were more likely to become an alcoholic or drug addict
or commit suicide.

that just opened my eyes to how they would react if i ever would fall into a vice or become depressed again,
and i take it as a blessing.

every new bit of ink i inject into my skin,
the more i own myself,

the more people are afraid, the less value i have.

"you’ll never get a job like that"
they say, “you’ve ruined your worth”.

some people tell me i am brave, share stories about their fantasies of the tattoos they want, and then they
give me a thousand excuses as to why they never got them.

most are fear.

i’ve been a chameleon, now i’m a neon sign, and that is okay.

i’ve watched the way people treat me when my tattoos are covered,
seen how their tongues turn into edges when they are displayed.

it’s funny how easily something cosmetic can turn people against you, make them think you’ll open your legs for everything,
make them comment on what you ‘must be like’,
make them gravitate towards you.

when i see a tattooed person,
i see someone that is unrestricted by society,
someone that is free and concrete in who they are,
someone that embraces their tragedies and passions,

but some of us are addicted to drugs
and some do let men use our bodies because we feel like we deserve it,
and many of us do drink our livers away,

but so do people with not even a dot of color in their skin.

i don’t think anyone of us deserves to be loved any less, whether we are painted or not.

—  being heavily tattooed in a society that isn’t and what i’ve learned from it || Scarlette La Vaillante
If I ask you what you love the answers will likely roll off your tongue.
You love to read.
You love to write.
You love birds, music, tattoos…
Your mom, your brother, your sister, your dad, your best friend, your dog.
How long do you think you could go on and on before you said
I love myself.
—  Meet Yourself in the Mirror, by Ashley Wylde