I have many, many tattoos. You don’t ever have to see them. Mostly you won’t. And when you do, they seem a surprise.

It began with a memorial to my maternal grandfather; stretching into a story about the life I was living and wanted to live. It’s all a story. Each one for a reason, a moment.

The ones on my shoulders and upper arms are for my ugly. I considered symbolism, not style or

trends. I considered the size and shape of myself and thought we could cover this with something beautiful.

This *beautiful* would be seen; taking the place of what had been an impediment, me.

At a particular age I felt I never needed to get a new tattoo again. I didn’t need anymore. I was finished telling my story this way. Hidden. Ink etched into skin where a voice should have been.