Black linework flower with leaves, with a geometric centre, on a woman's hip and upper thigh, in a botanical style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Black line flower tattoo on hip and thigh

Botanical · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A black linework flower with a dense, geometric centre and leaves extends from the hip across the upper thigh of a woman in a grey t-shirt. The outlines are uniform and the design uses no shading or colour. The tattoo sits in the centre of the frame against a pale wall decorated with framed artwork.

Botanical Geometric Thigh Other Flower Leaves Mandala Linework

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mind the step, that one's loose, it's been loose since the war, and Mrs Pascoe never got round to it. Sit by the window where the light comes in off the bay. You'll want to see the boats if they come back in.

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My grandmother kept the Marrowdown boarding house on the cliff road, and she had a rule that nobody came down to breakfast before she'd drawn the big brass compass in the hall. She'd scratch it out with a nail on the floorboards every morning, eight points and a ring, and the lodgers stepped round it like it was a sleeping dog. Then a girl called Ivy Tremaine came to work the kitchen, sixteen and sharp, and she asked why the compass had to be drawn by hand when the house had a perfectly good ruler. My grandmother said a ruler lies about the middle. Ivy laughed at her, and that was the start of it.

They fell out over the rose bed that summer. Ivy wanted to dig up the bramble that had grown over the back wall, and my grandmother said it had been there longer than the house. Ivy went out at night with the garden shears and cut every stem she could reach, and in the morning there were leaves scattered on the path in a pattern like a clock face, every one of them turned the same way. My grandmother stood in the doorway a long while, then she went out and started counting the petals on the one flower left standing. She counted it nine times before she believed the number.

The bramble came back the next spring, thicker than before, and Ivy was gone to Plymouth by then. But the compass is still drawn on the hall floor, if you look under the mat. Go on, lift it. Bring the lamp closer. There, in the middle, where the lines all meet, you'll see the one thing my grandmother never let anyone rub out.