Morning Pages

Every morning I’m appointed a tattoo. I’ve been getting new ink for about two years now, almost three, and I’ve come to know every name of everyone I have never met, but I know them like I’ve met them before. I only know them from the words the ink pierces into my skin. I know secrets that have never been told to these strangers, sometimes I get tattoos of wishes that could’ve been said, but my body holds on to them for a dear friend of mine. I trust her to use me as her canvas, and every word is a new story to be told. I’m happy I’m who she trusts to document her life. I do have this growing fear, however. I’m questioned that if I’m to keep these secrets and thoughts from the outside, why have these words on my bare skin? The most exposing of all? And that’s simple. I cover up. I wear makeup and put on pimple patches of various designs to hide my identity, because I’m the only friend that could be trusted. But my fear isn’t simply being exposed to the eyes of someone else. No. I fear I’ll be mythologized– no– that she will be mythologized without her consent or mine. When she passes, I’ll outlive her, for I am immortal and she is not. My immortality is what makes her time with me so worthwhile, and I’m glad to spend my days being her respite. But if she chooses not to burn me into the dust with her ashes, what if said strangers take me and use her words to tell the stories of others? Not hear her words or have the heart to understand her the way I do? I can’t speak, I can only listen. I’m in no obligation to speak because I know it is not my place to. To protect her I will never say a word. My tattoos are what make me special, and as heavy as the ink flows through the layers of skin that I have, I feel I’ve been given a life. That i’ve been given a voice. The only times I’ll ever speak is in whispers. As quiet as they are, they can be just as loud and bold as the ink she uses to paint these pictures. I merely echo her words back so she can learn from her own stories. When she speaks to others, or when she speaks aloud to herself in her room, her voice sounds nothing like how she uses the tattoo gun on whatever bare skin is left on me. The voice she wishes to use is the voice she gave me. I listen, but I’m just an imitation of someone else and speak on their behalf for her to recognize what lies deep within. That’s only something between the two of us, and the thought the rest of the world can take that voice and mold it into something that’s digestible makes my stomach churn. A cult classic I refuse to be. A quote to be shared around in the digital sphere with a lack of context behind it. The idea of these words she’s entrusted me with would be treacherous , and when she dies, the misunderstanding of betrayal would linger in depths of the underworld and I won’t be the one to tell her that it wasn’t of my own doing. I can’t add more words to my skin in the same way that she can. I have no ability to so, but I also have no control on what happens to these words if the world found out what she truly believed and thought across many timelines she’s lived. They wouldn’t see the growth of a girl becoming woman, but rather something marketable. That’s not a future I want for her, and I’ll do everything within my power to remain loyal to her. I’m in the bed next to her while she rests her eyes. Her last therapy session ended in a flood of tears. Oftentimes she cries on my shoulder, but tonight she needed to sleep it off. It’s a couple of minutes left before my next appointment, and I’m curious as to what she’ll share with me this time. The walls may see what’s on the surface, but they don’t know what really goes on. The wall, the sky, and all that surrounds me and her know all at face value, whereas I know all. Everything and everyone else can see from a distance, but I can see within. It may feel like a burden to carry this much for the sake of another person, but her expression gave me the life that I have, and I am forever grateful that I serve this purpose for her to grow and be a better person. It’s a gift of immortality that not many know of. I did say being burned to ash and dust, but that’s just the physical part of me. I’ll still be a part of her. I’m still that voice that she can’t find, she just gave me a physical form. Many are surprised by the amount of ink that I have, and how fast it dries. She has tattoos of her own, but they don’t heal as fast as mine do. Both our skin is fragile, but heal differently. Isn’t that strange? But I find it rather fascinating. She’s shifting in her sleep and the sun is positioned where it’s hidden in sight, but the light shines through the windows. A beautiful quiet morning it is, truly. She rubs her eyes and struggles to grabber glasses from off the window sill. She puts them on, and grabs the tattoo gun and preps it. It’s time for some new ink, and I’ve never been more prepared. I look forward to this ritual every morning, where only I get to spend time with her. She begins to write today’s date, and she begins, “I don’t know what to write today.”