the maps we draw on our skin, thinking they'll lead us home. I carved escape routes on my palms, little arrows pointing away. Now I just see a roadmap of all the places I tried to leave myself, and laugh, because here I still am. (Mostly.) I always thought the tattoos were armor. Now I see they were just elaborate costumes, disguises I thought would make me finally feel like myself. The joke, of course, is that 'myself' was always there, buried under all the ink and the trying.