Back view of a person with lilac hair in a ponytail wearing a white skull cutout vest, with a small coloured floral tattoo visible on the upper back.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small floral tattoo on upper back

Back · Colour · Photo

The photograph shows a person seen from behind with lilac hair tied in a loose ponytail, standing in front of dense green foliage. A white vest with a pink neckline and a large black skull outline cut into it reveals a small tattoo on the upper back. The tattoo appears to be a small floral design with pink and green tones, though it is partly covered by the vest and is hard to make out in detail.

Back Rose Floral Leaves Skull Hair

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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 flower hall on Carrow Street emptied by four, but I always stayed behind to sweep, because at that hour the cold room lights turned every bucket the colour of a bruised plum, and the forced roses looked almost as if they remembered being wild. Most were pink, a dozen crates of them from a grower in Kent who never sent a card or an invoice that matched the stems.

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One Thursday in February a crate arrived late with its stems crushed flat, and among them lay a single rose with a black-edged bloom, its petals curled like a hood. When I lifted it, the thorns along the stalk had grown in a neat ring, each one hollow at the tip like an eye. Old Mr Dunmore, who had sorted blooms on that floor since before I was born, took it from my hand and turned it under the strip light. "Bone and briar," he said. "Keep it out of the window."

I didn't. I carried it home in my coat pocket and stood it in a jam jar on the sill of my flat above the launderette on Hale Street, where the dryers thudded all night like a second heart. By morning the black edges had crept onto the leaves, and the leaves had gone a green so deep it looked wet. Each night the bloom opened a little wider, and each night the pattern at its centre grew clearer, until I could count the teeth.

On the last night of the month I walked the jar down to the river and tipped the rose onto the black water beneath the bridge lamps. It didn't sink. It turned once, pink and bone-white, and drifted towards the sea. When I climbed back up the stairs my palm was pricked from carrying it, and on the wet sill a single thorn lay where I had set the jar, already beaded with a bead of green.