It’s not about the stupid tattoo.
Just like it wasn’t about the party he skipped, or the ranch he never took me to, or the Valentines date he let his best friend crash.
It isn’t about the birthday left uncelebrated, or the coffee dates I arranged, or the parties I planned, hosted and cleaned up after.
It isn’t about the name no one uses, or the resumes I’ve edited, or the advice I gave, or the concerts I’ve attended.
It isn’t about the plane ticket I bought, or the fights I mediated, or the 3 plus phone calls a week.
It isn’t about all I did that no one asked for, because no one did ask.
I can’t explain what it is about.
But you ask me why I’m crying over a stupid tattoo.
Bringing Mae Flowers 