My Body, My Canvas, My Story:
At 17, my world shattered, and I embarked on a rebellious journey, inking my body as a memorial to my life. But in the process, I lost myself, allowing the removal of my true individuality; painful than putting it on. The ink that once defined me was erased, and with it, a part of me.
Yet, after over 16 years, I rediscovered myself and reclaimed my narrative. I inked my body once more, this time with even more vibrant art, bigger and more visible. Some might judge me, but to them, I say: if my skin can withstand the pain of ink, surely it can handle their words.
Art comes in many forms, and beauty is subjective. But why does body art spark such intense judgment and negativity? I'll never fully understand it, and I don't need to. What I know is that my authenticity attracts those who resonate with me, and repels those who don't. And that's perfectly fine.
To those who love me, I'm grateful. To those who don't, I'm not bothered. I can sit alone at my table, content in my own skin. Love me or hate me – I'm unapologetically myself.