Regret
My story is one of regret and stupid teenage rebellion. I grew up with the weight of expectations on my shoulders due to my father’s job as a minister. I was screaming for something else. So I designed my own tattoos and got the quality I paid for. My story is regret and mourning. I went and got a cheap flash art paw print from a tattoo artist a friend’s mom dated—before that friend was killed in a car accident—and I wanted that connection.
The larger tattoo was meant to be a sign of freedom, but my design was ruined by the artist and him not consulting me about the ink color or how it would look. He just slapped it on without a care, so long as he got paid.
And my last tattoos were meant to be a nod to how I was raised, but again, I got what I paid for. Blown-out art with colors added that turned them into a source of embarrassment due to their shape. Now, I’m desperate to find makeup to hide them before I get married next year. Just like I’m working on designs to represent my growth and strength—to cover my self-harm scars so my soul can heal.