Neck Tattoo

They told me

I’d regret the neck tattoo.

Like regret

was something new to me.

Like I hadn’t already

carried worse things

in places nobody could see.

At least this

I chose.

The needle.

The pain.

The permanence.

There was something honest

about sitting still

while something hurt me

and knowing exactly

what it would leave behind.

I’ve spent most of my life

with invisible marks.

Things people said.

Things people did.

Things I did to myself

trying to survive

who I was becoming.

Nobody warned me

about those scars.

Nobody asked

if I’d regret

the years I spent

hating myself.

But put ink on my neck

and suddenly

everyone has something to say.

Maybe that’s why

I like it there.

You can’t miss it.

I spent too many years

hiding every part of me

that might make someone

uncomfortable.

Now there’s a piece of me

right beneath my face

that refuses

to disappear.

My grandmother

probably would’ve hated it.

She would’ve given me

that look—

the one that said

she loved me

but absolutely questioned

my decision-making.

And I’d probably laugh.

Because I know

there are things about me

she wouldn’t understand.

But I like to think

if she could see me now,

she’d look past the ink.

She’d see everything

I had to fight through

to still be standing

underneath it.

Maybe she wouldn’t be proud

of the tattoo.

But I hope

she’d be proud

of the woman wearing it.

Because this neck

has carried shame.

Apologies.

Words I swallowed

when I should’ve spoken.

It has bent

under the weight

of things that nearly

made me disappear.

So I put something permanent

on it.

Not because

I needed another scar.

But because for once,

I wanted to choose

what stayed.

Call it reckless.

Call it a mistake.

Tell me I’ll hate it

when I’m old.

Maybe I will.

But if I make it

to old,

I’ll consider that

a pretty damn good reason

to smile at

the neck tattoo.