Fairytales and tattoos. Purity and corruption. Facades and symbols that are pieces and fragments of my experience. Of presenting an image. The old me, the intentional me, the holy mother, the fragility, the entrapment. The doting, spoiling, coddling me who wants to be bad, who wants to be good. I like the ideas scattered together on the page, like a tattoo artist presenting their options on a flash sheet. The dark fluorescent-lit room where machines buzz and insignia are permanently branded. To the dimly lit, warm, soft, safe corner of the room my child sleeps in. The youth of a lamb, made of porcelain. Presented on a shelf, to be touched is to be broken. The image of childhood without its mess. Without the fluids, cries, unkempt hair, and more fluids. A silver spoon makes a child eat better. White noise makes them sleep better. Paint the walls blue so they know you care. My inked arms slip through my robe, and the babies point at my markings. Their markings now. There was life before, but there is more life now. How to be Holy? Play pretend. Pray with knuckle tattoos and show a child what it is to live a full life.