The Stories Under My Skin

Every now and then one catches my eye and I have one of those little “oh yeah, I have tattoos” moments. Then I start to think back on not just why I got it, but who I was when I did. Most days I barely notice them. They’re simply part of me now, as familiar as the freckles on my arms or the scar on my knee. But every so often I’ll catch sight of one whilst reaching for a mug, pulling on a T-shirt, or walking past a mirror, and for a moment I’m transported back to the day it was done. I have eleven-ish tattoos these days, although two have long since disappeared beneath others. The other day, when I was out with Jack, someone pointed at my left arm and said ‘Ohh nice tattoos’. Again, I know I have them, but I seem to forget that they are visible and that not everyone has the same views on having visible art on their bodies. I started thinking back to why I got them in the first place, and realised that what I have isn’t just a collection of tattoos, they are a timeline of my life. A…