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The life and times of Juan Salas are written on his hands and arms, the black tattoos proclaiming his gang ties, his familia, his soulless, airless view of things.

The letters "LDLF" span the knuckles on his right hand, short for "Life Doesn't Last Forever."

On his other hand, the letters "TNB" - "Trust No Body."

"It's just what I think," the 18-year-old from Deming says. "It's how I see my life."

He got his first tattoo when he was 13, a crude "BP" for "Brown Pride" between his left thumb and index finger. The same letters - "B" on the left upper arm, "P" on the right - came later.

Smaller tattoos - "South Side" and "13" on either hand - identify him with the Sure¤os 13 gang.

An inky string of rosary beads lassos his middle finger on the left hand and twists into his family name "Salas" tattooed around his wrist.

A blue-black teardrop falls from his left eye, the mark of someone who has done time in prison - or someone who has killed.

Salas will not say which.

But when we meet Salas, the tear and the other tattoos are no more than angry, raised welts. In minutes, those, too, soften and flatten and fade from view.

All that remain are a few faint gray-green smudges on his right forearm, stubborn remnants from the tattooed scowls of Jesus and the devil.

For the first time in five years, he is tattoo-free, thanks to a voluntary program for incarcerated youths funded at an annual cost of $20,000 by the state Children, Youth and Families Department.

"We want to give these kids a fresh start," says physician Lauren Chavez, whose Laser Center clinic in Albuquerque has removed tattoos from about 50 CYFD clients in the two years of the program's existence.

"I tell them they're going to have a tough time getting a job with all those gang tattoos," Chavez says. "Getting tattoos, I tell them, is not putting your best professional foot forward. Because we do judge books by their cover."

For Salas, having his tattoos removed is more than getting a job. The tattoos keep him tied to the life of gangs, drugs and crime; the life that has kept him behind bars for all but 3 months of the last four years.

"The tats tell people who I am, but maybe that's not a good thing," he says.

He was 11 when he pulled a gun on a classmate, he says. For that, he received probation and community service.

"It just started going from there," he says. "It was just my life, and I liked it."

At 14, he was sent into juvie lockup for the first time on charges of armed robbery, auto theft and burglary.

Subsequent charges of public affray, larceny and criminal damage to property during short spates of freedom kept returning him there.

Until now.

He is 12 days away from being released from the Youth Diagnostic and Detention Center in Albuquerque. He is going home again.

He has undergone eight sessions with Chavez in the past two years, a longer process than for most patients because of transportation issues to and from lockup.

The procedure uses a Q-switched laser that produces light waves to harden the ink embedded in the skin, then break the solidified ink into tiny particles that the lymphatic system can absorb.

"You won't find a better system in Beverly Hills or Italy," Chavez says.

But it's not without pain.

"It's hurts more than getting a tattoo," Salas says. "It's like a sting but constant."

That's because it works so quickly - about 30 seconds for the smaller tattoos, Chavez says.

"We can apply a topical anesthetic to ease the pain," she says. "But none of these guys wants that. It's a macho thing."

Salas, sitting in the lobby of Chavez's pristine Northeast Heights clinic after his last treatment, stares at his hands and arms, cleaned of the tattoos he bore for five years.

He wonders if he can stay as clean.

"I'm still in my 'hood," he says. "There's a lot of meth down in Deming. I've always done drugs. But I'm going to try to stay away from drugs, try to stay out of trouble. But it's my life."

LDLF, he says.

When he is free, he plans to get more tattoos, on his back, his chest, out of view, but there just the same.