By Sammy
I wear my story on my skin
the way some people wear armor.
Not to hide —
but to remember.
The butterfly came first,
inked in the place where
a girl once learned to shrink herself
to survive.
Wings carved into me
before I knew how to use my own.
A symbol of the version of me
who still believed transformation
was something that happened later,
to braver people,
in safer homes.
Then came Warrior,
sharp, clean, unapologetic —
the name I never asked for
but earned anyway.
A reminder that surviving
wasn’t weakness,
and breaking
didn’t mean destroyed.
It meant rising.
It meant choosing myself
on days I felt like disappearing.
It meant fighting battles
no one else could see.
And then, the guitar —
“To Love Somebody.”
Papa’s song.
Papa’s heart.
The piece of me that learned
love can be gentle
even when life isn’t.
The ink that ties me
to the first man
who taught me
what kindness looks like
when it shows up
and stays.
Three tattoos.
Three lives.
One woman
who carries her past
and still walks forward.
Soft enough to love deeply.
Strong enough to survive anything.
Dark enough to feel her shadows.
Bright enough to rise anyway.
This is my skin.
My journey.
My ink.
My becoming.
Reading Trauma Mama: Velvet & Taboo 