One tattoo for every person whose life you have ended; they creep closer to places where it really hurts. One piercing for everyone you’ve damaged; three pills for everyone who hurt you. A little red blemish for every time you are misunderstood and a new wrinkle for wasted kindness. And after 35 years, you are already running out of skin. You say to yourself like you say every year, that this time there’ll be fewer mistakes. But next week you are back at the parlour, asking the man who asks no questions to draw a blue crow on your thigh.