My Tattoos (...so far)

    I've had a lot of tattoos done recently so I wanted to put a little post together to tell you a little bit about them. For those of you who didn't know, I've had a tattoo since I was eighteen and I've finally found myself able to expand on that. I have had quite a few done in a short space of time but, don't worry, I'm fine. I've had all of them picked out for a while but only recently had the money and found the right artist for them. 
    I started collecting tattoo ideas when I was about thirteen. My mum has had tattoos since before I was born and I've always loved them. Obviously people have different opinions on that kind of thing but I think it's a lovely way of expressing who you are at different points in your life which I will go into in more detail later on. 
    My first tattoo I had done in Stratford Upon Avon when I was doing my a levels. I'm a literature student so I wanted to get something that captures my favourite book/artwork which is Alice in Wonderland. I always loved it as a kid and around the period where I was 17-18 I found myself turning to the illustrations a lot as artwork and I ended up watching the Disney cartoon whenever I felt a little down. It felt right at the time that it should be my first tattoo. 
    It's a kind of awkward story to tell because the tattoo originally didn't end up how I wanted it. I'd selected pictures of something that implemented the original illustrations but the artist wanted to change it slightly because they're too detailed to do as small as I wanted. I absolutely love the tattoo, but now that I know more artists and have found people who can do more intricate work, I wish I'd looked around a bit more for someone who could do it exactly how I wanted. The original tattoo cost £40 and the pain wasn't too bad, (that I can remember). 
    I wasn't given much information about aftercare and ended up using coconut oil on the tattoo (don't do that,) the trouble with oil based care is it dries the skin out too much and you end up putting more on to compensate and so the tattoo basically scabbed up weirdly in a way that none of my others have and when it was healed huge chunks of it were discoloured. I have since been told that this was probably due to the oil as well as the placement of the tattoo because wrists are easier to damage because your clothes rub them. 
    I found a place in Worcester recently who I went to to have this touched up and we added a lot of detail around it to make it look less stiff. We added white ink as well which I love. It reminds me of the Disney fairy dust which is really cute. It cost £60 to have it redone and hurt a lot more this time than I remember it doing in the beginning. All in all this one tattoo cost me £100 so it's worth doing your research for your first tattoo and if you aren't in a position where you can travel, wait until you can! 
    For those interested, I went to Cameron at Lock & Key tattoos in Worcester for the touch up. I don't remember the name of the guy who did it originally. 
    February this year was a tough time for me. I had a lot come crashing down around that time and thankfully, I have the most incredible friends now who carried me through it and I came out really just wanting to get a tattoo for the first time since I'd had my original Alice done. One of my anxiety symptoms (I've recently discovered) is the intense desire to drastically change my appearance. For example, I go through breakups and want to change my hair or spend too much money on a specific outfit. And to a certain extent I feel like that's quite a normal thing that most people do. However, this time I just wanted someone to tattoo a bee on me and fast because I was out of patience. I chose a bee because it felt right at the time. I guess because bees are quite cool and they work hard and our world is dependent upon them but if you fuck with them they will sting you. I guess at the time that resonated with me a lot. I went to the fabulous Sammie at Worcester Tattoo Studio and she is just so great. This one cost £30 which is so affordable and it looks great. Out of all my tattoos this one hurt the least, I don't even remember feeling it that much. I adore my bee. I think it's my favourite of all my tattoos because it marks such a huge struggle but also marks me getting through it and I came out feeling stronger and so much more independent. We named him Burt after Burt's Bees because we have to save the bees and Burt's Bees are a great company for helping with that. My bee is the only impulse tattoo I have and I love it, kind of for that reason. Regardless of what other people might think, it truly represents the person I was at the beginning of 2018 and I'm so glad I will always have it to look back on things.
    As I said before, since I was about thirteen I've been saving tattoo ideas on my phone and sketching bad drawings and one that I haven't changed my mind on in that time is my mountain range. There isn't really a symbolic meaning behind this one. I've seen a few and just loved how they look. One of my favourite musicians Lewis Watson brought out an album a while ago and my favourite lyric off it is 'When the water meets the mountain and we can't keep afloat let's let ourselves go under. Someday we will all be ghosts' so I guess there's a connection for me with mountains and being at peace. I absolutely love this tattoo. I went back to Sammie to have it done five weeks after she'd done my bee and it was such a fun tattoo experience. In terms of actually having it done it was my favourite of all of them. We listened to Amy Winehouse and chatted the whole time. Sammie said my foot would twitch and not to worry about it and I thought I'd managed to get through the whole process without it happening but my friend Lydia said after we left that it was shaking all over the place I just hadn't noticed. This one cost £40 and it's healed beautifully I love it so much. 
    Having already explained my anxiety impulses I feel less awkward telling the story of my fourth tattoo here than I did about explaining to Sammie why I was back again after two weeks. Most of my tattoos have been thought about one way or another for at least a year. I held this one back for a long time just knowing that there would come a day where my impulses told me I 'need to get a tattoo or I'll cryyyyyyyy.' (the voice inside my head sounds just like that she's so winey i swear to god.) I was born on the 23rd September 1998 and the number 23 has always stuck with me. I see it everywhere, I feel positive when it's the 23rd and I just find a lot of comfort in it. I've always known I would get it tattooed and so I saved it for when the winey voice in my head said the time was right. Lydia has become my tattoo buddy and we were sat in Starbucks trying to get out our latest assignment when we just looked at each other and were like, "shall we get tattoos today?" 
    We didn't get tattoos that day... we booked them for a week later. It was actually quite cute getting them both done on the same day and I'll always look at my little 23 and remember how much of a mess we were at this point of Uni (in a good way.) I was nervous to tell my Dad about this one because I was worried he wouldn't love me anymore (joking ofc...) And I'm not actually sure if he knows yet because it's so teenie that he may not have noticed. This one cost £30 as well and hurt quite a bit but it took less than 10 minutes so it wasn't too bad. Sammie's really great and so much fun to be tattooed by; if you're looking to get tattooed in Worcester you should definitely check her out.
   

 I have so many tattoos that I want to get done over the next few years because I want to enjoy them while I'm young. I'm going to be saving up for a bigger piece over the summer to get done for my Birthday so I'm super excited to share that with you in a few months! But... you never know there might be a couple in between knowing me. I'm going to finish with this picture of me with a dog that I met when my friend Ray got tattooed because it makes my heart happy. 
    Thanks for reading if you got to the end. I find other people's tattoo stories really interesting so figured some of you might too. I'm going to link the instagrams of both people who have worked on my tattoos to this point as well as mine. I have a insta-story highlight where I post my tattoos so you can check that out if you fancy and follow me to keep up with the journey. 


Sammie: https://www.instagram.com/sammielou_tattoos/
Cameron: https://www.instagram.com/stretchytattoo/
ME: https://www.instagram.com/chloehanks23/

Bottlefly Wings

Tinder Guy.

A boyfriend would care about the fact that I am trapped beneath a weight of sadness, alone in my bed, half crying, half too broken for the tears to actually come out.

But you didn’t want a girlfriend, and I didn’t want a boyfriend; so, you don’t have to care.

A little colour swatch poem I wrote which I think came from this feeling too. 

Sometimes you pretend to though; whether in a secluded act to make me trust you enough to pull the fabric from around my skin, or whether a genuine attempt to make me feel safe is unclear.

But I’m here, broken.

I’m so aware now of why they keep leaving, of why I’m easy to replace, of why I’ve never left them sad or broken, simply relieved or numb. I warned you. So why are you mad at me? Why are you angry with me for not being reliable or committed or even happy?

You said you didn’t want a girlfriend.

You try to use it to your advantage, but I’ve seen this before, manipulation at its finest. If I really cared I’d do it… well there’s the thing, honey, I don’t care.

I imagine you’re not aching in your heart and your hands like I am; you’re aching between your hips but that’s not my problem. Just like it isn’t yours that I’ve been chewed up and spat out and am not worth bothering with. No. Not my problem, that’s what you have hands for.

It's funny how you think that one swiping motion makes you physically and digitally entitled to my body.

I didn’t let you in so that you could use my scars to paint your own pretty little picture; no. It’s nice to fill your time with something, don’t flatter yourself with pleasantries. I had to learn the hard way people don’t always mean what they say, I’m helping you along, you’ll thank me later.

You love yourself a lot, more than you could ever love me, I know that. But in desperate attempts to distract myself from the pain ripping me apart beneath my ribs, I imagine what I would say if you ever told me you loved me.

Would it warm me up inside? Would I feel something this time? Would all my broken bones fix together as if they were never crushed beneath the weight of an impossible commitment?

I start to wonder what happened to me. What happened to the pretty, skinny, hopefully naïve fifteen-year-old who could love with all her heart as if the universe was at her fingertips.

Fuck knows.

Until I figure it out I’ll keep messaging but don’t get your hopes up; people like me and people like you are destined to never be touched by love.

Ivy

If I wasn’t a wildflower, the book would end differently. If I blended into the bed of roses like a beautiful star amongst thousands of others, it’d be worth the risk. If I wasn’t slightly broken, if I wasn’t impatient and flawed, if I didn’t hold onto things and grow where I’m not wanted; you’d be here, and it would end differently.

Who would choose to plant a weed in their own garden?

If I wasn’t a wildflower competing with a Lily, then maybe you’d have chosen me all along. Maybe you’d never have discovered the beauty of an artificial, mechanical garden where you can pick and choose rather than love what you’ve been given.

It counts for nothing really, when all is said and done. You can pluck me from the ground and discard me, I keep coming back, popping my head above the ground; surprise, me again. It means nothing. A heart full of desire and longing, I’d never let you down, I’d be something different, something exciting.

But no. They’re prettier of course, ‘natural blondes’, more convenient, less effort. People ask less questions. 

If I wasn’t a wildflower, there would have been no debate, no tangent to get lost in, no phone calls that you’d regret in the morning. If I wasn’t a wildflower, I wouldn’t be used to it, I wouldn’t need to understand your dilemma.

But I’m not a Rose, I’m not polished, I don’t have a suit of armour built from thorns to shield myself; it all seeps in and tears me apart from inside. I’m weak. I’m a flight risk.

Some have had me mistaken for poison ivy; something evil or dangerous, something damaged, a lost cause. Maybe they were right and that’s why.

I sometimes wonder if I should just let myself wilt and shrivel; maybe when you realise my worth you can revive me a little with some sugar water and empty promises.

But the truth is, I’m not worth saving, not when you can’t purchase the right seeds from a big green garden centre and recreate my magic; too much effort right?

Maybe next time I should let the wind carry me away, pop up somewhere on the side of a road, I’ll get used to people coming and going. Maybe then I’ll accept that none of it was real.

If I had an identity, a name or an image, if I was a Daisy,

then maybe?

I Went to Wayland's for Coffee and Wrote a Sad Little Story

I wake up with dry lips every day. As I brush my teeth and then slather said lips with Nivea lip butter, my mind starts to flash like a supercut for a new blockbuster film. I see snapshots of the dream I had and then forgot immediately, I see the face of the lover who burned me years ago, I see the face of the one I tried to move on with, I see my dog who lives with my parents but I still expect to hear her scratch at the door each morning. I realise I am in a state of purgatory; stuck somewhere between having had great things and potentially having new great things.

I am the fork in the road, disrupting the clear path I had set out for myself.

I am the one who stands between me and a lucid state of happiness.

Until I can switch off from what was and what could be, I sit at the same desk each morning and coat my lips in raspberry scented butter. It does the job. I drink my coffee, think to myself how it’s not as nice as Wayland’s coffee but it’ll have to do seeing as £2.70 every day is a lot to spend on coffee.

That’s when his face flashes into my mind again. We’re approaching the two year mark that will round off when we last spoke, so why am I thinking of him now?

I realise what an awful person I am to have loved another since but have left behind so easily compared to the whirlwind of daydreams and sleep dreams the first has featured in recently.

An awful, awful person.

Perhaps, or perhaps I’m just lost, tripping over my shoelaces in a rush to tie them and so I ended up tying them on the wrong feet. All this time I just needed a change of shoes.

Does that metaphor work? I’m not sure it does.

I think about his hair and wonder if it’s still long and untidy like it used to be; a golden whisp, always soft and always looking right even though it was a mess. I wonder if he still makes the same kind of jokes, do the same phrases still spill from his lips… I wonder if there’s another girl adopting those mannerisms as her own in an intense attempt to become part of him.

Shake it off. You’re fine.

The last inch of coffee has gone cold, it doesn’t matter, I wasn’t enjoying it that much anyway. I’ll end up going to Wayland’s later I’m sure.

I pull my arm into my coat and almost feel my hand reaching for his like I did that night. In unison with a past version of myself, I pull my hand back. I don’t get to hold that hand anymore. It’s over. The end.

I leave the mug to be washed up later. I’m an adult now; I clean up when I feel like it.

I haven’t felt like it for a while, I can tell my mother was judging me the last time she was here. But I pay my rent and I cook my food and I decide.

I think I could do with tidying up though; if only you could tidy your mind like you can tidy a little room. If only I could pick up his hair and his hands and his lips and put them in a box to be locked away in that little cupboard above my wardrobe that I can’t reach properly.

If only I could dust away all the traces of that dream I had a few weeks back where everything was lovely and okay and I was happy and he was here.

Key in the door, light off, locked, gone.

When I get outside and put my playlist on, I forget for one moment.

One foot after the other, I find comfort in the noise my heels make on the tarmac; click, clop, click, clop. Only adults wear shoes like that, it’s these shoes that make me a woman, not him, not what we used to do when we were in love and the doors were shut and the lights were off. No. It’s the shoes. My brand-new shoes; no laces.

The tracks from Reputation play into my ear and I feel like a powerful woman; one who owns her heart and is in complete control of who is let through the gates. If only it were true though; if only I could control it.

I see him walk in front of me, dashing in front of the windscreen of his car to go and pay for the petrol. I see him turn his head to look back at me before he enters the garage. I see the way his eyes used to look when he looked at me. He hasn’t looked at me for two years and several months but I can see it.

There’s no one there of course, except one lady and her dog who stops to say hello to me and then forgets me once I have continued walking.

That’s what life is meant to be like; you get back up, you carry on walking and you forget: the past isn’t reality anymore.

But when you can still feel that buzzing in your chest that you haven’t felt for years despite holding hands with another man, you just cling on for dear life and you can’t let go.

I can’t let go of the box of things I kept under my bed; the necklace he bought me that got tarnished on my nightstand, I couldn’t bear to put it away. His guitar pick that I accidentally dropped into my guitar bag instead of his, the birthday cards, the concert tickets. Everything.

I can’t forgive myself for throwing it away, despite tears streaming down my face, when I packed up my things to move away.

I find myself wondering if he would ever forgive me for it.

I walk through the wind despite its brief threat of rain. I carry myself over foot bridges and pedestrian crossings; through streets of people in love or otherwise. My hands meet the door and I feel a small weight lift, I open it, I’m greeted with warm air and the soft smell of freshly brewed coffee.

For £2.70 I make it all go away for half an hour or so.