by SLOANE HOLZER
My Daddy and I are getting matching tattoos” read my tweet. An accompanying jpeg pinned to the bottom of the Twitter post displayed the curve of intricate script on a white forearm, the proposed location of our chosen bond that would state our permanent link to one another. They responded soon after, showing off their own hypothetical tattoo, which I remember as something like “Daddy to a Crazy Daughter.” My eyes felt fixated on that last word in their response, the way a hunting dog’s posture can hold itself like a living arrow. They called me their Daughter, I thought, over and over again. That sentiment, that declaration, was a taste I wanted to roll around my mouth forever.
