Remington Review, 2025
G
At nineteen, I tattooed
the letter G on my right
arm. I don’t know why.
Maybe to honor my cat,
a chubby tabby with
a scratchy tongue
and obsession with plastic
bags. I watch a new
needle scrape against
my skin in July. I don’t
know why. Maybe to
make sure that girls
behind registers would
know I am cool—It
worked, I traded blushed
smiles with all others
who knew the secret code.
I awkwardly sit in a leather
chair, in a room where even
the walls were tattooed—
the 6’8” cane-thin man
sets up his instruments
like a child lining up their
Match-Box cars, I think
about how he could nail
me down, the steam-punk
rock shoving into both ears,
It's normal to consider
this. I go back to the man
and the cigarette-Clorox
smelling room every time
I add a new sketch
to my porcelain skin.
I don’t know why. Maybe
to ease my mom’s worry,
maybe to be sure all
of my tattoos look uniform,
maybe I don’t want
multiple people to mark
my blood—maybe I trust
him. I slowly peel off the saran
wrap bandage four days too early.