You don’t want to be with me because I have tattoos.
See I find this hard to believe.
I’m now not worthy enough because ink and needle have pierced through ever changing skin and left visible marks that I consented to?
So it has nothing to do with that skin being golden?
it has nothing to do with my thick body structure?
it has nothing to do with my kinky hair or wide lips?
It has nothing to do with the fact that I swallow the words of Malcolm and Angela, like the best meal made on a pagan holiday by a single black mother, who made diamonds with pennies.
It has nothing to do with my sharp tone that erects in the presence of white supremacy, like an obelisk rising to symbolize the patriarchy that I daily fight.
It has nothing to do with me making art for women who look like me, learn like me, breathe like me.
It has everything to do with me displaying those realities on my body.
My tattoos are acts of
My brown body is a
For rape, for death, for ridicule
I choose to mark it. I choose how it is displayed even as I reluctantly play by the unfair rules that capitalism and white supremacy have set for me.
So you won’t be with me because I have tattoos.
I won’t be with you because of your narrow mind.