Scars mar my skin from my head to my arms to my legs.
I've never known a life without them, at least not after the age of eight. It's the first thing people ever notice about me. In Asia they ask, in America they try not to stare, but everywhere it's guaranteed that the first thing you will notice about me are my imperfect skins and raised red bumps.
For a long time, my body felt like it wasn't my own - how could it be when I didn't seem to have any control over it? When I felt like I lost control even before I barely knew what the word meant? The fire took away much from me: self-love, bravery and most of all, confidence.
My mom asked me why get a tattoo when you already have scars all over your body. Why add to the scars I already carry?
I tell her it's because I wanted to take this body back.
Back from the fire, back from the jokes, back from the tears, back from laughter, back from everything that made me ashamed about showing my skin. I wanted to take it back from them and make this body mine.
I wanted to prove to no one, but to myself that this body belonged to me, and I lived here. So like the first time I moved out and into a new apartment that belonged to me: I put up my favorite decoration and made my mark.
