I pity the woman who will love you
when I am done. She will show up
to your first date with a dustpan
and broom, ready to pick up all the pieces
I left you in. She will hear my name so often
it will begin to dig holes in her. That
is where doubt will grow. She will look
at your neck, your thin hips, your mouth,
wondering at the way I touched you.
She will make you all the promises I did
and some I never could. She will hear only
the terrible stories. How I drank. How I lied.
She will wonder (as I have) how someone
as wonderful as you could love a monster
like the woman who came before her. Still,
she will compete with my ghost.
She will understand why you do not look
in the back of closets. Why you are afraid
of what’s under the bed. She will know
every corner of you is haunted
by me.

So the other day I was smoking with one of my really good friends (Whos kind of, well is, a total blunt ass bitch) and then two other of our guy friends at one of their houses. And my good friend and one of the dudes totally ganged up on me and my tattoos… I got so pissed off.

She was like “But Taia think about what you look like with those at 70 years old…” I’m like “Yeah? I always love seeing old people all tatted up. Looks like they gotta bunch of stories!” And she’s all like “You think it looks like they have stories? Really? So what are your stories?” I’m like “Honestly they don’t have much of a story to any of mine, mostly I just love tattoos.” And they just kept battin me down from there like you need some huge meaning for each and every tattoo you get.

I respect that… But shouldn’t you guys respect the fact that I just love art/tattoos in general? So each one of mine isn’t going to have some huge ass meaning behind it?

Seriously. Pissed. Me. Off.

Fuck eeeeerrbody.

And sorry my tattoos are better then your dumbass typical white girl tattoo of three polish words on your hip… Ha ha ha.