The Creation of Me

Michelangelo gets a dark twist, and William Branham gets ignored.

This dude William Branham, some old-school cult prophet who swore he heard God’s voice in a tree when he was seven, once said, “Don’t defile your body in any way.”

Yeah, okay. Delusional much?

Anyway, I don’t take advice from random men, especially not ones chatting with trees.

As a lot of you know, I officially wrapped up my internship on Monday, something I’m damn proud of. And on the exact same day, I scored a full-time gig starting January 5th.

So naturally, I celebrated the only way that felt right: by “defiling” my body with my sixth tattoo.

It’s not some impulse flash piece either. My friend Esther Duval drew it, and the second I saw it, I knew it had to be mine. It’s a dark, twisted spin on Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam: the divine hand reaching out, but skeletal, dead, clutching a pencil while barely missing the living fingertip.

To me, that bony hand is God dying in my world. Dead. Gone. The living human hand is mine, because I’m the one writing my own damn story now.

Rewriting the old scripts, rewiring the bullshit I was fed, and yeah, this blog is part of that too.

The linework is so clean it almost hurts to look at, minimal but loaded with meaning. Every time I glance down at my arm, I feel this quiet rush of power: I did this. I chose this. I reclaimed this skin that was never really mine to begin with.

No regrets. Just fresh ink, healed edges already forming, and zero fucks given.

This one feels like the period at the end of a very long, very toxic sentence, and the wide-open blank page for whatever the hell I want next.

Tattoo created and done by @duval.studio on Instagram