Permanence, Regret & Meaning.

If you have more than a couple tattoos chances are there’s at least one you’d like to rethink. This is the story of mine. 

So I fell in love. Which in and of itself is stupid beyond comprehension because love is unfathomably idiotic and probably doesn't even exist (obviously I’m in a really good place right now and TOTALLY equipped to make that call).

But I did. And it was one of those intense, fiery, out of this world things where you think it’ll last forever no matter what because when the two of you are together everything is perfect and the whole world goes away and even if it doesn't last you’ll still want a reminder of this wonderful beautiful passionate time in your life, right?

Here’s my advice: Write it down somewhere or take a picture or fucking scrapbook that shit because anything more permanent is a mistake. Anything you can’t put a flame to and disappear into a cloud of smoke and ash within moments is pure folly.

And look, unroll your eyes and save your lectures because I KNEW then and I know now how stupid it is to get a tattoo for someone else. I’ve heard the horror stories and cautionary tales about never getting someone’s name tattooed on your body no matter HOW in love you think you are and thank god I didn't go that far because it’s bad enough thinking about her every day and finding little reminders of her around my apartment or reliving our shared memories at every turn because every goddamn corner of this fucking city is haunted by her and the times we shared so the very LAST thing I need is to see her name every time I take my shirt off.

But I digress.

So I got this dumb fucking tattoo on my chest. Right over my heart (except not really because everyone knows that biologically your heart is more in the MIDDLE of your chest, but in the symbolic sort of “place your hand over your heart” kind of over my heart) because that’s where she put her hand when we’d lie next to each other in silence and just enjoy the quiet stillness of being together. Those moments are when my scattered, confused, often angry or frustrated mind would slow to a crawl and quiet to a whisper. I don’t think I've ever actually felt peace, but when we were there and her hand was on my chest I was as close as I've ever been. Maybe as close as I’ll ever be. So right there where her hand would rest I had the artist permanently ink two interlocking puzzle pieces. Because we were really different and both sort of broken in our own different, but kind of similar, ways and we absolutely SHOULDN'T have worked, but somehow we did. We fit together like magic in a way I could never (and still can’t) really explain. We used to tell each other that against all odds we were a perfect fit.

And I would spend a lot of time just looking at my new tattoo. I would stare at it and smile. When I was lonely and when I missed her, when my brain got loud with doubts and fears and stupid shitty stuff I couldn't tamp down or wish away I’d lay in bed with my hand right on top of those puzzle pieces pretending it was her hand. I could feel her there and no matter how awful or depressed or lonely I felt it was like a little piece of her was there with me. Because despite distance and complications and a million roadblocks we were going to figure it out and we were going to be together because even though we SHOULDN'T have been we were a perfect fit.

Until we weren't.

So now I’m stuck with this reminder. A permanent “what if” or “what could have been” on my chest forever.

And as I heal from getting dumped so hard on my ass that for a while I wondered if I’d ever get up again I get to stare at this fucking thing every goddamn day.

In as long as it takes to read a series of text messages my tattoo has gone from a calming symbol of love and togetherness to a ticking, beating, Telltale Heart-like reminder of just how fucked everything is and how there’s no such thing as a perfect fit. No such thing as my other half. This dumb fucking thing healed a long time ago and now it throbs with pain in a whole new way.

In a way it’s fitting that one piece is black and one is just an outline because maybe that outline is empty because there IS no complimentary piece. It’s the puzzle piece lost in a sofa cushion or sucked up into the vacuum cleaner. Gone forever leaving a hole that nothing will fill because the only thing that was EXACTLY that shape is gone now and it’s not coming back.

Maybe I’m overreaching to complete this metaphor.

And yeah, cover up tattoos are a thing and lasers exist, but I don’t want to put one more ounce of effort or care into this thing just like she doesn't have one ounce of care or effort left for me.

I just want it to go away. To disappear from my life as easily as she disappeared me from hers.

I want to look at it and say “I don’t want you in my life anymore. Take care.” Because apparently it’s that easy to discard something you thought was permanent.

So I move on. And it’s going to be there for a while so I guess it’s up to me to make it mean something new. So maybe it’s not a soft landing target for a loved one to place her hand in that gentle loving way that only a true connection can bring anymore.

Maybe now it’s a shield. A small piece of armor protecting that place in my heart from getting hurt again.

Or maybe it’s a constant reminder of my shame and failure. Something I can look at every day to remind me that I wasn't good enough or smart enough or tough enough or good looking enough. That whatever it was she wanted, it wasn't me. That I didn't fit. That I’ll never fit.

Or maybe it reminds me that love DOES exist. Even if it’s temporary and it’s delusional to believe otherwise it’s still very real and if I look hard enough I’ll find it again, if only for a little while.

Maybe it’s just two puzzle pieces that don’t mean shit anymore.