The tattoo is serpentine, coiled around your wrist. Inked onto your skin overnight, it floats above green river veins like a ghost. Ma beats you until bruises blot it out. Tattoos lead to wanting, and worse, to thoughts of escape.

A second tattoo appears overnight, a vine that curls around your fingers, waiting to bloom. This time, Ma doesn’t speak with her fist. She drags you to the removal specialists, watches expressionless as you scream.

But when the charred skin heals back to serpent and vine, even Ma has to admit you are not to blame. A third tattoo glides across your rib cage, winged and ethereal. Now they are evidence to be collected and shown to the Authorities.

While you sleep, flames snake up your throat, flowers bloom on your right cheek. Soon you are more than half claimed. You wake in the night when something stipples your heart, your lungs pooling with ink. The mirror cracks when you look, reflecting a splintered eye.

The doctor tries to explain your chances and why your body is betraying you. You are tessellating. With a little surgery, you could fit right in, go back to Ma. He pats your good cheek with a latex hand as you stare at the operating table.

You wait in your room, shivering. The dark fills you until you are more constellation than girl. Even now, it might not be too late. There’s still time for the pattern of wings to unfurl, feathers emerging, lifting you far from the scalpel.