Is it the pleasure in pain or the cry for individuality that I crave? I personally compare my body to a temple. My temple is a ranch style fixer upper most of the time that gets treated like a 1970’s single-wide trailer some days and a modern multimillion dollar mansion on others. One word… Shiplap.

As much as I loathe my timid behavior, slowly unsure movements, and awkward mannerisms, I have found that I hold enough respect for myself to adorn my humble home with fine art along my arms and legs. My face bares the scar tissue of piercings past as if a hole had once been punched through the drywall. I love it however when I can go back for more. The feeling of my lip being held onto by the nitrile… The needle in position ready to swiftly strike as a snake… Deep breath in as the pinch intensifies to an almost unbearable sting and out as the endorphins race to the rescue, naturally numbing… I am alive…

Tell my story. Tell it in a way that not even I can because I struggle to find the words daily. For with the tide, my marks on this earth wash away as quickly as I make them. Tell of my evolution from adolescence into adulthood or whatever this shipwreck is called. Can I please add some shiplap from this shipwreck to this temple? I would like to remind myself that I was here. I would like to remind myself of who I once was as I grew into who I am. I would like to revisit the good times and experiences by pictures and words. The world needs to see that I am more than just existence. I need to know that I am more than just existence. As the searing scratch of the needles lay into this skin, I want to thank the Creator for an artist who can tell my story without the pausing, the fidgeting, the second guessing, the doubt, and the negative of the portrait they paint. My modification is my story. My modification is every stage of me.

2 thoughts on “Modification

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