Tattooed

I had three dots tattooed on each of my fingers and thumbs last week and they look as though someone has forcefully pressed three little poppy seeds into each of my fingertips.
They help keep my anxiety in check and remind me that nail beds hate being needled.
They help me remember not to hate odd numbers just because they sound ugly; discrimination: I don’t stand for it, it’s not fair in any aspect of life.
They help me to think I can do anything and they help me to recall that the future is just around the next analog revolution. 

I’m a soft and free spirit. I’m going to move on and I’m going to travel the globe. I’m going to continent hop and leave this ground for someone else to tread upon more lightly than I.
I’m worth so much more than I ever dared to imagine and I’m finally going to let myself believe that fact.

I’m gonna jump on planes on a whim and ride the skies until I know all the routes and destinations.

These fingers are ailing but their beauty is terrific and now they shout how unique they are. They sing and they dance between keys, between sheets, between hair and brushes and pencils and scissors.

These small inky spots, they remind me that one day someone will lay beside me surrounded by cotton and nylon and say to me,

“My god,
your back is so beautiful
It is so endless and shimmering soft in this light
My god,
I love you”

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