I think you're much like my favourite tattoo. 

See when I got my first one, I was excited. Believe me, I was so incredibly pumped that when the needle came, I thought nothing of it. I was too excited to give a fuck. And for a long time after, I was so happy with it that I didn't think about maintaining it.

I inked this. 

Gradually, the ink begun to fade.

And I think what any logical girl would do - I made arrangements to do a touch up. I worried a long time before it because I was lazy and the parlor was too far away. But one day I had a special someone who decided to go with me. So I went.

The pain was unbearable and halfway I had to stop. I said fuck it and leave the final infinity sign alone. I never got it touched up. Was that my mistake?

The second tattoo was tiresome. I went gloomy and I knew I did not want it as much as I thought I did. But circumstances put me there and I found myself saying "yeah this will do, don't worry it's fine, this is okay" and for a while I asked myself why it didn't matter. But I realized slowly.

I inked this. 

The pain of this tattoo was not physical. This one was brutally emotional. Day and night I'd scratch it in a desperate bid to stop the itching and day and night it threatens to scar me forever with its scab wounds. It did not take long before this tattoo gave up on itself and lost all lackluster.

I thought it was time to touch up. I did not think it was time to leave it be.

So this time alone, I got it touched up. The pain was a vengeful one - the artist didn't appreciate me telling him how fucking much I hated the fading. Before I left he told me that it is choice-less the symbol ink should seep because it was never well done in the first place.

For not the first time, I regretted it. But it was what I wanted at that time. But I regretted it. And I was torn.

Slowly, a special someone convinced me he loved it and I should stop fussing. Slowly, he made fun of it and helped me laugh over it too. Slowly, I begun to forget.

Eventually, all good things leave me. It was expected that he would too. And he did.

I went for a final touch up on the mess. The tattoo artist took a look. He said kindly that he could do an outline deep and the inside less, so the ink would stay. I agreed. It didn't hurt anymore - it was finally a lost wound.

I remembered why I got my first tattoo. And I remembered why I got my second. And in that moment, I knew what I wanted for my third.

I went back.

I didn't tell anyone about my special someone.

I wrote down the single phrase I was going to ink forever on my arm.

I wrote it again and again and pictured me proud of it and pictured me happy with it but of all, I pictured the regrets I may forever have to bear with it.

I booked an appointment.

The tattoo artist must have been miffed. I requested so many redos. I wanted the perfect font and the perfect position.

Nothing about you should be a fuck up again. 

I decided finally. I laid on his makeshift bed.

And I thought of you.

He trailed his needle deep into my skin slowly, intricately, as if to make it sear. I didn't look, I wanted to love it upon sight and I didn't want to see the words in pain.

Strange now in foresight, that I never gave much of a shit about what I felt, only what the words would feel.

The pain was extraordinary compared to the other two. This one I felt with all of my skin and soul. This one was not just inking my body, this one was fusing with my blood.

You. 

The love before the pain,
The blood in my veins.

He gave it a wipe down and I looked at it in the mirror and I tried not to tear through my smile.

I inked this. 

I inked this for you.