Cover me in wildflowers

I have many tiny tattoos, that I have begun to cover with wild flowers, and I am reborn, as i blossom again.

I have many peach roses. My grandmother was a poet, painter, clothing designer, rebel; a teacher, my idol and mentor.

She shot and murdered in her home.

Tess’s ashes were split and thrown over blue mountain, half was buried under a peach rose.

My fathers mother left a tea set when she passed. The set is covered in tiny blue forget me nots, now..so am I.

When I was a child, I thought I was

Sailor moon.

I called upon my moon prism power every night..

three years ago, I gave myself a stick and poke tattoo, a tiny sail boat, On the mast is a moon.

I’ve got botched Latin and Roman neumerals, and a music note that an old man in Portugal mistook for what he called “esperma” (sperm) ..

He pointed to his arm, excitedly.

He had little sperm men with smiley faces warped by his wrinkled skin all around his wrist.

We drank sagres and watched the sunset together.

My mother one morning found me in the kitchen crying.

We had lost our home and I felt I needed to get a more reliable job because my art wasn’t paying enough to keep us afloat.

In a stern tone, amplified by her Jamaican accent she said:

You must have passion, my darling

You must have patience my darling.

And you must persist, my darling.

My mother hates tattoos... but that day, I went to sit in the first chair that would seat me.

‘passion. Patience. Persist’

tattooed onto my wrist.

..sort of .. the apprentice who tattooed me misspelled persist (perstst)😒 😂

So I’ve started covering the mistakes with flowers..

Slowly but surely my garden is growing over all the cocô.

There’s something poetic about it. 💩 🌹