You have a friend who does stick-and-poke tattoos. After the breakup, you tell her you want one. You want to hurt.
She understands. She tells you the pain will feel good because at least you’ll be in control. It hurts only as long as you want it to.
A. wanted your first tattoo to be something you shared with her — not a matching image, but a story that began on her body and spilled onto yours. Maybe something with a swan, she said. Or a bunny. Maybe something broken that would be mended when your tattoos touched. But she never made a final decision because you always had an excuse: I don’t want to be in pain. I don’t want my parents to be angry. I don’t want to regret it. You told her maybe someday.
