There’s something about the way ink appears on the skin, not in the way of a tattoo, though. Rather, in the look of a stray pen line or a word written in finely pointed marker. It gives the appearance of permanence, though it is by definition temporary. Striking with its bold, dark, and crisp marks on the flesh. 

Writing on oneself is an act of rebellion. an anomaly within itself that shows one's inner thoughts. A literal rendition of a heart on a sleeve. Thoughts on an arm. Quotes and reminders and art, a living picture of interests, desires, and passions.

Some will say it’s wrong, that the act is practically vandalism or worse. That’s not the way I view it. To me, the body is both an artist and a canvas. Everyone must be allowed to portray themself in the way truest to who they are, and that is ever-changing. 

My skin may be half ink. It may have soaked in ounces of chemical color over the course of hundreds of sleepless nights, but it doesn’t matter. Every time it is the same canvas, the same blank space but changed somehow. I think the body has a memory of the words. It knows what once was there.

Every stroke takes the story in a new direction, changing and evolving. It is not static, though it may appear the same. The skin remembers. It sees how far I’ve come. It knows that I can write in joy instead of the pain that once marred its surface. And what a beautiful thing it is.