Kylie Monroe

Intro The hum of the tattoo machine filled the quiet studio as I lay on my stomach, the cool leather of the chair pressing against my skin. Kylie worked with practiced precision, her needle dancing across my back, etching a new piece of art into my skin. It had been a long week—one of those weeks that left my mind tangled and my body heavy. I needed this. The sting of the needle was grounding, a kind of therapy that inked away the weight I carried. Kylie, a longtime friend and an artist with a sharp eye and an even sharper tongue, was the only person I trusted with my skin. She told it like it was, never sugarcoating a thing. Between the buzz of the machine and the scent of antiseptic, she chatted about life, offering her usual blunt wisdom. “Spit it out,” she said, not even looking up from her work. She always knew when something was on my mind. I exhaled, my muscles tensing slightly under the needle. “Just… life.” She scoffed. “Life’s tough. But at least you’ll have a damn good tattoo to show for it.”