“So why bleeding hearts?” asked the tattoo artist, needle hovering over my wrist.
“They remind me of my mom. And my grandmas. My aunts too. And all the strong women in my life.”
And as the ink marked my skin, I winced and wondered, “why bleeding hearts?”
They always grew in our flowerbed.
Tougher than they looked.
But fragile too.
Tiny teardrops as they aged.
Because sometimes love hurts.
Wild romances and crushing break-ups.
Powerful labour, then a perfect tiny child.
So much laughter that it turns to sobbing.
My heart on my sleeve.
So the blood is wiped away gently. The lovely little tattoo encircles my wrist.
For my mom. My grandmas. My aunties and aunts. For women’s strength.
©Conni Cartlidge, 2014