Megan Price

After surviving a fatal car crash that killed my partner and left me forever changed, I had his name, ERIK, inked on my wrist. Years later my abusive husband would tell me unless I got his name on the other hand I wouldn’t be married. I buried that name under something that felt like me. The skeleton lady became my resurrection. Each detail of the sleeve is a scar turned sacred. A ghost turned guardian. The artist never finished it—he vanished. But I wear it like it’s done. Bec

“ You didn’t kill me. You crowned me.” This isn’t just skin. It’s spellwork. It’s memory carved in pigment. My ink would whisper warnings and war cries. She’d say: I was not made to be pretty—I was made to be believed. She would howl in ink what my voice once couldn’t say: I survived what you hoped would silence me.

I’d finish the tattoo that began as survival and became a sacred text. Then I’d fund the first grants for my nonprofit, providing self sufficiency grants, offering emergency aid to other survivors of institutional abuse, serious H. pylori, and domestic violence. Every dollar would amplify voices like mine. Every inch of ink would keep telling the truth they tried to erase. The OG author of #TraumaBarbie