I caught sight of it in the mirror—

I caught sight of it in the mirror—

the tattoo on my shoulder—and didn't recognize it

at first. The lines have blurred where the ink

meets the scar tissue, where the whole thing

is becoming something I didn't intend.

I don't remember why I got it.

That's what they don't tell you.

The reason leaves before the ink does.

I was twenty-three. I was angry.

I wanted to mark myself

as permanent, unchangeable,

impossible to erase or reinterpret.

Now the edges are soft.

The line bleeds into unmarked skin.

It looks like a scar now, almost,

or like something I've been carrying

so long it's become part of my body

instead of something added to it.

I could have it removed.

I think about it sometimes.

But I don't want to.

There's something about the blur,

the way it's becoming gentler,

more human. Less like a statement

and more like a memory of a statement,

faded but still there.

I still love it, I think.

Or I love that I can't quite remember

why I loved it, and that forgetting

feels like something has been forgiven.