Black and grey flash design of a detailed moth above crossed leafy sprigs, with a dotted circle behind it and the words Virgo and a quote beneath, with no body placement shown.

Moth with leaves and Virgo quote

Dotwork · Black and grey · Flash

A detailed moth with spread wings sits centrally, framed by a dotted circle and fine radiating lines behind its head. Two sprigs of leaves curve upwards from below, and the wings are shaded with light grey wash over fine ink linework. The word Virgo in serif capitals and a short italic quote sit at the bottom of the composition.

Dotwork Botanical Moth Dotted circle Leaves Sprig Radiating lines

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

The bulb above the sprung floor has been failing since June, and by the last waltz the moths have found it the way they find every light along the front. You stand at the cloakroom hatch with a tray of forgotten gloves and count them. Eleven on the glass, three in the pleat of the velvet curtain, and one big grey thing with feathered antennae that keeps circling the chandelier as if it owes someone money.

Keep reading

Mr Dyce, who runs the Palais and trusts fumigation the way other men trust the pools, comes down the stairs with a tin of spray under his arm. He points at the horoscope card pinned beside the ticket window, the one with the cheap printed sprigs of hop and oak curling in its corner. Those leaves, he says, are where the grubs eat their way into the bunting. You tell him the moth is only drinking. He tells you that's what they all say.

You remember the night in 1947 when Teddy Marsh came in with a pocket full of rosemary and asked you to dance, and how the whole room smelled of it afterwards. Nothing in the hall stayed clean for long, and you never minded. Then the band strikes up Goodnight Sweetheart, Dyce goes up to the stage with his tin, and you walk the length of the floor with the glove tray held against your hip.

The moth drops from the chandelier onto your wrist as the last couple leaves, its wings the colour of old tram tickets. You don't move. Dyce sets the spray down on the piano lid and says nothing, which is the nearest he has come to kindness in eleven years. Outside, the tide goes out over the sands. The moth opens and closes on your cuff like a small grey hand, and you let it stay.