ONE TATTOO ON MY ASS [INTRO] People ask what I’ve accomplished. Baby— check the mileage. [BEAT DROPS] [HOOK] Got a body like an archive, every year got a tab Whole life in the margins, one tattoo on my ass Scars wrote paragraphs I never asked them to draft Whole autobiography— one tattoo on my ass Been through fire, came back smelling vaguely like gas Built a house out of rubble, put a logo on that You want proof I was here? Baby, follow the tracks— One tattoo on my ass --- [VERSE 1] Fourteen years old, met mortality early While everybody else was learning eyeliner and flirting Hospital lights made a second little sun Learned real young— the body keeps receipts when the damage gets done Life put footnotes in places I never picked Little invisible ink underneath all this shit Then I grew up backwards, as survivors sometimes do Beat death once and apparently thought— “Cool. What else can I get into?” Had babies. Built worlds. Made rent out of air. Kept pulling rabbits from hats that were barely fucking there. I’m less a success story, more a building that passed inspection somehow— with one tattoo on my ass. --- [HOOK] Body like an archive, every year got a tab Whole life in the margins, one tattoo on my ass Whole lotta evidence, whole lotta past Whole résumé long— one tattoo on my ass --- [VERSE 2] I’ve been the ship and the storm and the woman on deck Been writing little checks that my nervous system cashed Turned wreckage into furniture. Called it design. Turned “this is concerning” into “wait, I could monetize.” That’s alchemy, bitch. Not wellness. Different department. I make stained glass windows out of structural problems. Built planners for brains that refuse to march straight Built songs from the shit most people sedate Every bad year left a ring in the tree Cut me open, count backwards— there’s the whole history. But after all the weather, all the smoke, all the ash— still just one intentional mark on my ass. --- [BEAT CUT] Only one. Minimalism. --- [VERSE 3] My life got filing cabinets nobody requested Medical records, screenshots, exhibits, evidence Half my personality needs a chain of custody Every story starts normal, then suddenly— “Wait. You survived WHAT?” I don’t have baggage. I have geological layers. Whole civilizations buried under “yeah, anyway, later.” I carry old versions of me like rings in a trunk proof I kept growing when the weather got fucked Some people find themselves. I leave breadcrumbs. Some people get closure. I make content. Some people heal quietly. That sounds lovely. Couldn’t be me. I put a beat under it and charge admission to see. --- [BRIDGE] Mother. Survivor. Creator. Questionable contractor. Built a cathedral with no fucking architect. Kept the lights on with extension cords and spite. Painted the exits. Made the rubble look nice. And somehow, with all this symbolism attached— I got exactly one tattoo on my ass. Put that on LinkedIn. --- [FINAL VERSE] Don’t call me inspirational. That ruins the bit. I’m not a butterfly emerging from shit. I’m more like a raccoon that survived the house fire, came back three days later and somehow owns the dryer. I’m not proof everything happens for reasons. Some shit just happens. I got good at rearranging the pieces. Made mosaics from glass that was aimed at my back. Made a personality out of answering, “Jesus Christ, Alie— how’d you live through all that?” Like— I don’t know. Momentum? Poor judgment? A deeply inappropriate ability to find shit funny? But I kept coming back. That part is fact. Whole museum in my body— one tattoo on my ass. --- [FINAL HOOK] Body like an archive, every year got a tab Scars wrote the chapters, I just tightened the draft Life left fingerprints all over the glass Whole autobiography— one tattoo on my ass Made pain into punchlines, wreckage into craft Made little gold frames for the shit that went bad When I’m gone, put one sentence in all fucking caps: SHE CARRIED A WHOLE MUSEUM WITH ONE TATTOO ON HER ASS --- [OUTRO] “What’s the tattoo?” Irrelevant. The rest of me is the exhibit.
