Wolfsong

I ASKED him once about his tattoos.

The shapes. The patterns. Like there was a design. All bright colors and strange symbols that I thought should be familiar. Like it was on the tip of my tongue. I knew they went all the way up his arms. I didn’t know how far they went beyond that.

He said, “Everyone has a past, Ox.

We can’t leave it here,” she said. “He’ll be offended.”

“I’ll be honest. I’m already offended.”

My daddy had told me people were gonna give me shit and that it was gonna hurt.

My father was a liar.

Everything had been shit.

But I was still fucking standing.