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 pain subside.

It used to be our little secret,
these hideaway sessions, so discreet,
helping him perfect his craft as I was hopeful
he’d one day earn millions and be successful.

When my mom found out, without a doubt,
she had immediately tossed him out.
There was no further explanation, as she had only declared,
so I resented her for nineteen years and despaired.

I figured she didn't want to see
her child covered in "filth," so I let it be.
I never quite understood her part,
since she loved tattoo artists for their art.

From then on, behind her back,
I met different artists to keep me on track.
I couldn't seem to quench my thirst for ink,
as more artists marked me, making me sink deeper and unable to think.

Each artist painted with different flair,
colors, styles, and designs to wear.
But all held the same meaning, how stark,
down to the last drop of ink, jet dark.

© sionx

Author's Note: This is written purely fictional but happens in real life as well (to some).