The tattoo on my arm is a permanent memory of the past. It sits just underneath my skin with bold black ink. I cannot wash it off. I cannot tear the thoughts that it brings away. In the morning, it stares at anyone who dares to look with its pointy edges and fierce rope that wraps around the metal anchor. That rope is used to hold what’s left of my dignity tightly together. But she sees it. The one who lays next to me at night. It brings clouds to her eyes and those lips that I used to kiss now stand at a straight vertical line. I hide the tattoo with shirts and pull overs to keep her sane. Why should I hide what once made me so happy?