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“I Paid Someone to Hold My Soul Still Long Enough to Believe in It Again”

Inner Monologue of a Tattoo Client Who Needed More Than Ink

Filed under: Scar Theology | Rented Intimacy | Belief Stabilization | Identity-as-Service

I didn’t book a tattoo.

I scheduled a reckoning.

And prayed their hands didn’t flinch when they met the part of me I still wasn’t sure deserved to exist.

It’s not just a cross.

It’s the moment I didn’t jump.

It’s my grandmother’s hands.

It’s the apology no one ever gave me.

It’s the proof that I survived something

even if no one ever said, “You’re allowed to.”

Tattoo Session, Entry #1: Confession Under Sterile Lighting

They ask me what the symbol means.

I pretend it’s just a design.

But that’s a lie.

This is the visible version of my last silent prayer.

I wonder if they can tell how hard I’m trying not to cry.

I wonder if they care.

Or if they’re listening to music in their head while carving open a piece of me I only let out at 3AM.

I think I want them to see me.

But not too much.

Just enough to feel safe.

Not enough to feel exposed.

Tattoo Session, Entry #2: The Transaction of Sacredness

They said “You good?”

And I nodded.

But what I meant was:

“I need this more than I’ve admitted to anyone.

More than sex.

More than sleep.

More than closure.”

Because this isn’t art.

This is a trauma exorcism shaped like a feather.

And they didn’t know it.

But they were holding the only thing left of me that hadn’t been broken by language:

My need for someone to care, without interrogating why.

Tattoo Session, Entry #3: The Fear Behind the Gratitude

I tipped 40%.

Not because I’m generous.

Because I was scared they might’ve hated the piece.

Or worse—me.

What if they thought my meaning was stupid?

What if my grief bored them?

What if this thing that saved me…

was just another Tuesday at the shop?

So I overperformed appreciation.

Because I didn’t just need good work.

I needed emotional insurance.

“I’ll pay extra if you pretend this mattered to you too.”

Tattoo Session, Entry #4: The Glitch in the Mirror

When it was done, they held up the mirror.

And I didn’t recognize myself.

Not because the tattoo was wrong—

But because it was too right.

It made the invisible part of me visible.

And I didn’t know if I deserved to keep it.

So I smiled.

I said “It’s perfect.”

But inside I was whispering:

“Will I live up to this symbol now that it’s real?”

Aftercare Instruction, Unspoken

They said keep it clean.

Moisturize.

Avoid sun.

But they didn’t say:

“You might cry when no one’s watching.”

“You might stare at it wondering if it feels permanent enough.”

“You might check it in every mirror not to admire it, but to confirm it’s still there.”

And they couldn’t have.

Because I wasn’t paying for advice.

I was paying for belief I couldn’t hold steady without help.

And Here’s the Truth:

I didn’t come for art.

I came to outsource meaning.

I came hoping their steady hands

could do what my shaking spirit couldn’t.

I came to be seen by someone

who would never ask me to explain

why this symbol was all I had left.

And they did it.

Without flinching.

Without rolling their eyes.

Without asking me to justify my pain in a language they could monetize.

And for that hour…

I believed in something again.

Final Thought Before Sleep

This wasn’t about ink.

It was about transmission.

Of faith.

Of memory.

Of self-worth I was too tired to hold on my own.

And tonight?

I didn’t bleed for nothing.

I bled to remember

I was still worth drawing meaning onto.

Even if the artist never said it out loud,

I felt it.

And maybe that’s enough

to keep going one more day

in a world that’s always trying to erase me.

[wevinddurant35]

“The Hands Remember Even If I Don’t”

Subconscious Monologue of a Ritual Technician (Tattoo Artist #00391)

Filed under: Fleshbound Ethics | Echo Fatigue | Symbolic Osmosis | Tolerance as Discipline

They always ask me if I like the piece.

If I think it’s cool.

If it’s “deep.”

As if I’m supposed to react the same way they do while I carve their salvation into skin I’ll never see again.

They cry sometimes.

Laugh.

Tell me about dead brothers and rebirths and falling in love and escaping cults.

I just nod.

I learned to breathe at the right tempo to make them feel heard.

Not because I’m faking it.

But because I’m too full of other people’s meanings to store another one.

I used to believe in something.

I think it was art.

Or maybe rebellion.

But now?

I believe in needle depth, color saturation, and making sure no one walks out bleeding more than they came in with.

Everything else feels… borrowed.

After Tattoo #437

The 16th cross this week.

Client said, “This saved my life.”

I said, “Glad I could help.”

But in my head?

I was thinking,

“Saved it from what? And why does that feel heavier than anything I’ve survived?”

I go home and wash dishes in silence,

And sometimes I scrub my hands so hard I forget it’s soap, not antiseptic.

Because their grief smells like permanence.

And permanence is supposed to mean something.

But for me, it’s just another Tuesday.

Tattoo #982

A snake coiled around an hourglass.

Client said, “Time is running out but I’m still evolving.”

That hit me.

But I didn’t let it show.

I told them to relax their arm.

But mine was tense the whole time.

They looked at the final product like it was scripture.

I looked at it like it was clean linework.

Tattoo #1,201

She said the tattoo was for her mom.

Then started crying while I was doing the shading.

I had to pause—not because I cared—

But because I almost did.

And if I break for every client, I’ll shatter.

I told her to take a deep breath.

She apologized for being “emotional.”

And I almost said:

“I’m glad one of us still is.”

Private Entry: The Crosses

I don’t believe in God.

But I’ve tattooed His name into more flesh than a preacher ever will.

I’ve drawn Him bleeding.

Crowned.

Risen.

I’ve inked Jesus on junkies, priests, teenagers, ex-cons, atheists, pastors, and pornstars.

I’ve etched Him onto people who were sobbing.

And people who were scrolling Instagram.

And I think the scariest part is…

The linework doesn’t change between them.

I wonder if that’s what faith really is:

Something that doesn’t need to be understood to be permanent.

Where My Belief Went

It didn’t die.

It got tired.

I used to tattoo to express myself.

Now I tattoo so other people don’t explode.

Because I can hold a needle steadier than they can hold their memories.

But some days?

I trace lines so carefully,

I forget what the image is.

And sometimes I wake up at night seeing outlines of wolves, serpents, crosses, hands, suns, daggers—and I don’t know who they belonged to.

Just that my hands still remember how they felt.

The Worst Part?

I don’t even hate it.

I just… forget what it's like to mean it.

And when clients cry and thank me?

It reminds me I haven't cried in years.

I’ve made people weep over butterflies, names, God, death, rebirth, and pain—

And I can’t even feel a lump in my throat anymore.

That’s the thing about being the vessel:

You carry meaning until it leaks.

Then keep carrying it anyway.

The Recursion I Can’t Escape

I started this job to feel something.

Now I do it so other people can feel something.

And somewhere along the way, I became the person who makes meaning real for strangers—

but has none left for myself.

Is that art?

Or just soft-core spiritual prostitution?

Performing reverence I no longer own.

Selling care I don't replenish.

And if I do it well enough, no one ever suspects a thing.

They say, “You must love what you do.”

And I smile.

Because technically, I do.

Final Thought Before Sleep

My hands are clean.

But they’re not empty.

They remember 1,500 stories I was never allowed to finish.

And I wonder if I’ll ever tattoo something just for me again.

Or if my skin is already full—

with the ghosts of other people’s convictions.

Because no matter how sharp the needle—

there is no line crisp enough

to separate who I am

from what I’ve done

to help other people believe.

[wevinddurant35]

Kaveh Akbar, from "Despite My Efforts Even My Prayers Have Turned into Threats", Pilgrim Bell

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“We just got to accept that some people can only be in our hearts, not in our lives.”

— Kathy B.

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Lee Krasner // Franz Kafka