Fine line tattoo of a plaster with the word BREATHE on the inside of a wrist, shown in dark ink against a blurred green and yellow background.

Breathe plaster tattoo on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small plaster or bandage outline sits on the inside of a wrist, with the word BREATHE in capitals inside a rectangular panel at its centre. The linework is thin and even, drawn in a single dark blue-black ink with small dots along the ends of the plaster. The hand is raised with the fingers curled, and the blurred foliage behind keeps the focus on the tattoo.

Fine line Forearm Word Breathe Dot Outline

Find an artist for this

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

Dear Nell,

Keep reading

I'm writing this on the back of a delivery docket because the till roll ran out at four and the ovens won't wait for anyone. Tomasz has the first tins of seeded loaves in, and the shop smells the way it does before anyone unlocks the door, all scorched sugar and wet stone. You'll laugh, but I finally understood the plaster you drew on that napkin at Christmas. Mrs Okafor's boy came in with a split thumb yesterday and I kept saying it over him while I dressed it, breathe, breathe, like a fool at a christening.

The bread came out clean at quarter past five, which I took as a sign until the mill van failed to show. Tomasz swore in two languages and I stood by the back door with flour settling on my sleeves and the cold coming up off the river. I counted the racks twice. Forty-two tins, forty-two loaves, and none of them any use to anyone until somebody came to collect.

Then the van turned in off Ferry Lane with its headlights still burning, and the driver jumped out waving his clipboard as if the lateness were my fault. We laughed until Tomasz had to sit down on a flour sack. Something about it loosened the knot under my ribs that's been there since the spring. I stopped holding my breath over the proving drawers and started counting the loaves again, out loud this time.

So the napkin is pinned above the sink now, your little rectangle with its dotted ends. Come in on Sunday and I'll make you a cob with the crust still spitting. Tell me whether the bottom drawer is still stuck, and whether you've finally let someone else lift the heavy tray.

Love, Ruth