LUNGFUCKED

Cigarettes came first. Then the thick chain. Then the Gucci cap. He started speaking less, thinking less, giving less of a shit. Conversations got shorter. Days got simpler. The sharp version of himself started feeling distant and pointless. The hand tattoo came last. Once the ink was in, there was no soft reverse.

Now he lives in the look: slow drags, gold resting on his chest, mind properly quiet. He likes how thick and cheap he’s become. He likes that the tattoo means he’ll always be viewed as a chav now, no matter what. People clock the ink and the kit and they know exactly what they’re looking at. He chose this thicker, cheaper life on purpose and the tattoo made sure he could never quietly undo it.