Ink That Moved

I saw your wrist and saw

the way the lines had blurred,

how time had altered every word

the needle put there years before.

Your tattoo faded differently than mine.

The edges softer now, less sharp.

And watching it, some part of me

unstitched from the regret I'd worn

like a second skin for so long.

I got mine when I was angry,

when I thought I'd be angry forever,

when I thought the anger was the truest thing

about me, and I needed proof.

But seeing yours, how it had moved

beneath your skin, how the ink

had become a living thing,

something that aged and shifted

the way skin does—

I thought: maybe this is fine.

Maybe this is just what happens

when you're brave enough or stupid enough

to mark yourself.

Maybe the meaning changes

and that's okay.

Maybe the ink doesn't have to mean

what it meant on the day

you let someone stab it in.

Maybe it just means

you were alive

when you did it.