Fine line black tattoo on a chest showing the words i forgive you in script above an outlined plaster with a dotted pad, in Fine line and Dotwork styles.

I forgive you lettering with plaster on chest

Fine line · Chest · Black and grey · Photo

A black ink tattoo on the upper chest reads "i forgive you" in handwritten script, positioned above an outlined adhesive plaster. The plaster has a dotted pad in the centre and plain outlined ends. The linework is thin and even, with the dotwork confined to the pad, and the image is shown in close, softly lit framing against plain skin.

Fine line Dotwork Lettering Chest Text Script

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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

The fair has pitched on the back field behind the Co-op in Thrapston, and the generator under the dodgems hums like something asleep. You find the Mending Tent by its smell of TCP and candyfloss, a hand-painted board hung from a pole: PATCHES, WHILE-YOU-WAIT. Mrs Ottoline Pike sits behind a trestle covered in oilcloth, with a biscuit tin of plasters and a fountain pen. She does not look up when you sit down.

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"What's broke?" she asks. You tell her it's a word, one you said at the Harvest Supper in September, and that it has been lodged under your ribs ever since, sharp as a splinter. She nods as though you've ordered chips. She takes a strip from the tin, the sort with the dotted pad in the middle, and lays it on the oilcloth between you. Then she uncaps the pen and writes, in a hand that leans into the wind, the three words you have been unable to say to anyone. Lowercase, she says. Less bossy.

"Does it heal anything?" you ask. She says a plaster never healed a thing in its life. It only keeps the air off while the skin gets on with its own business, and the rest is patience and not picking. You say that's not very romantic. She says nobody has ever come into the Mending Tent looking for romance, and sweeps the coppers into her apron.

You walk back past the waltzers as the lights go off one ride at a time. Your thumb finds the dotted pad through your jacket, pressing it the way she showed you, firm at the edges and easy in the middle. Behind you the big wheel sighs to a stop, and the field goes dark except for the bulb over Mrs Pike's tent, which she switches off last, as though it were the only thing left she had to forgive.