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.
Through the Fog 