Three Years

I got it three years back.

Now the light hits it wrong

and I can't decide if I love it

or if I've just learned

to live with the fact

that I'm marked.

The color has faded.

It's softer now. Less committed.

Like it's already forgetting

why it came here.

Like it's already leaving.

I walked into that shop

in a moment of something—

hope or desperation or need.

I was reaching for proof

that I existed.

That I was real enough

to mark my own skin.

The artist asked if I was sure.

I said yes.

I meant it then.

I'm not sure now.

But meaning something and living with it

are different things.

This tattoo is a scar I chose.

It's a voice I gave myself

and now I can't take back.

It's a permanent record

of a moment I can barely recall.

Three years is long enough

to regret.

Three years is also long enough

to love.

The light changes.

It looks different again.

Maybe that's the point.

You have to keep looking.

You have to keep deciding

if it matters.

And I haven't decided yet.

The design is still there.

But softer. Faded.

Like I'm slowly erasing

my own choices.

I'm wearing proof

of who I was.

But I'm not that person anymore.

And I can't undo it.

So I just look at it.

In different light.

With different feelings.

And I wait

for one of them to stick.