I’m not here to blend in, look at me. This is bone, ink, and raw chaos scrawled across denim, not some polite little pattern. That jagged spine runs straight down my leg like a battle scar, a middle finger to anyone who’s ever wanted me to play it safe. The scribbled words? Yeah, they’re messy, just like every yelling thought in my head, every late-night regret, every dream that was too loud to die. The fabric’s been through hell and it shows, washed, battered, damned near untouchable.
