What tattoo do you want and where would you put it?
I Almost Tattooed Rage on My Face
(For Jack & James)
I almost did it.
Sat there long enough to picture it—
ink crawling out from the corners of my eyes
like something that refused to stay buried.
Not decorative.
Not symbolic.
A warning.
The kind of thing that says,
don’t get too close unless you mean it.
I told myself it would be honest.
That it would save time.
No small talk.
No pretending.
You’d see me—
or at least the version of me
I thought was still in charge.
The one who keeps score.
The one who remembers everything.
The one who could burn it all down
and call it justice.
I thought about wearing it
where no one could ignore it.
Right there.
Across the face.
So I wouldn’t have to explain
why my voice goes quiet
when people say things like
“everything happens for a reason.”
So I wouldn’t have to pretend
I don’t still feel it—
that split-second flash
where the world narrows
and something ancient in me
steps forward.
I almost gave that version of me a name.
A uniform.
A permanent place to live.
But then I realized something—
I’ve already worn it.
Not in ink.
In glances.
In silence.
In the way I left rooms
without saying goodbye.
In the way I held onto anger
like it was the last thing
I had left of him.
As if letting go of it
would mean letting go of him.
And that’s the lie, isn’t it?
That rage is proof of love.
That if I soften,
I’ve forgotten.
But he didn’t live like that.
Not really.
He fought, sure.
He burned bright.
But he laughed too easy
for someone who was supposed to carry what I carry now.
He didn’t stay in the worst moment.
So why would I?
I sat there thinking about that—
about putting something permanent on my face
to mark something
that was never meant to be permanent.
And for the first time,
it felt… unnecessary.
Like writing a headline
for a story I’ve already outgrown.
I don’t need to wear rage anymore
to remember him.
I don’t need to prove
how far I could go
if I stopped caring.
Because I do care.
That’s the whole thing.
That’s the part I was trying to hide
behind something sharp.
So no—
I didn’t get the tattoo.
Not on my face.
Not anywhere you can see.
But something is there.
Something quieter.
Not a warning—
a presence.
Not stay back
but walk with me.
And if you look close enough—
not at my skin,
but at the way I move through the world now—
you might see it.
Not the rage.
But what’s left
after I finally stopped needing it
to speak for me.
Leave a Reply