It was a vile of ink and a needle meant for sewing. It was a dark morning in the really early hours. It was a premonition of how much I would need to remember. It was only a word, but it’s more than a word. It’s in my own script written there almost on the sole of my right foot. Written there almost on my soul its self. I sat for hours and hours. It was so simple but it took precious time. Five letters each one just as exquisite as the next or the previous. I hissed each breath as the needle stuck into my skin, leaving ink in its wake. It was ugly to some, like a scar. To me it is beautiful.

My flesh cried tears of blood out of pain or happiness I couldn’t tell you which. It accepted the marking willingly and held onto my message with the strength of a warrior. Neither water nor dirt could pull it away and it did not fade, even as my skin grew over it in a layer of protection. It was a blessing in the times that I need it most. Something so simple as a jailhouse tattoo.

Smile was the word that I engraved into my flesh. Its meaning is a simple as the word itself. An upward curve of the lips is all. Sometimes it’s the show of teeth like an enraged animal. Just like the word a smile to me means so much more. Smiling through the pain is all I know. It is a skill learned and earned. I’ve wept for the things I smiled over once before and smiled for the things for which I’ve previously wept. It is a word and a symbol. It is an axiom by which I can live. It is forever a part of me, just like my skin.