About me
My name is Cora My world smells of leather, green soap, and the buzz of a machine. Not the kind that sews clothes, but the kind that leaves permanent marks on skin—drawings, stories, vows. I dream of becoming a tattoo artist.
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My room is my fortress and my workshop. Other girls have posters of actors on their walls; I have sketches plastered over every free space: intricate geometric patterns I dreamed up at night, realistic roses that need to look alive, ancient dragons in old-school style. On my shelves—not makeup and trinkets, but pots of ink, sheets of practice skin, and dozens, hundreds of sharpened pencils. My han
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But I have a second dream. It doesn't live within these four walls, but in a big, old atlas I bought at a flea market. Its pages are worn thin from my constant turning. I don't just want to do tattoos. I want to travel. I imagine it so clearly I can almost smell the scent of foreign cities on my skin.
