by Oscar Portillo
There’s ink on my skin.
I see it as art.
You see it as rebellion.
Youthful ignorance.
Worthless.
Demeaning.
Disgraceful.
I see lines. I see color.
I see a masterpiece. I
see a piece of my soul
out in the open. I see
someone’s art
beautifully displayed
on my skin. They
allowed me to go
everywhere and show
off the art
and the skill.
But these lines. These
shadings. They’re me.
And whether or not
you approve of them,
they bring stories.
Stories on skin.
What’s yours?
