My mom always had a thing
for tattoo artists, setting them as lovers or flings,
which I never took as an issue,
since I've worn tattoos for as long as I knew.

My first one, I still vividly recall,
I was but a child, barely out of her thrall.
It was from someone I called "Uncle," who,
at the time, was dating my mother too.

An aspiring artist, new to the trade,
doing tattoos for a living, seeking a grade.
He admitted his inexperience, so few,
having only inked a small number since he's new.

He asked if I wanted to try,
and being the curious kid, I lied.
I pretended it didn't hurt since I didn't even cry,
but he gave me painkillers to help the...