Branded

You came into the shop I was waiting in. You told me, the threat if I said ‘No’ implicit, For only I to see A supposed gift, explicit For all to see “I got a tattoo at 18. I have booked you to have one as well now. Your first tattoo, from me to you.” I didn’t want one, not then. But I had to choose. I couldn’t say ‘No’. Luckily I had a book, with an image. You didn’t want me to choose that. But to put up too much resistance would expose the lie. This wasn’t a gift. It was defiling me with your mark. Taking my ability to say ‘No’. I was having this mark. Yours. Branding me as yours. The form didn’t matter in the end. The look in your eyes when it was done said it all. I was now yours. Stained on my arm with your brand. Just because I chose the form, didn’t change the brand. A branded mark saying ‘This Boy Is Mine. My Son. My Property’. So often I want to tear at it, to cut and gouge, to burn and rip. Until your brand is gone. But that will leave a scar as good as any brand you made me have. So one day, whether it is tomorrow, or the day I die, I will turn it into art. Something I really want on my arm. Something that says ‘”I am me. I am mine, not yours. This is not your brand any more”. I will take ownership of my own skin and flesh and soul again. And your brand will be gone. A phoenix rising and burning your mark away. Goodbye, Father.