My back is hidden by the clothes I adorn each and every morning
And my clothes are hidden by the fact that the world is blind to me
By the title of “nobody” taped on a sticky note that once said “kick me”- because I have already been kicked.
They are hidden by my stereotype, the label of that nerd who sits in the back even though she clearly doesn’t want to but must because her surname does not begin with an ‘A’,
Because she does not need glasses or contacts, because she simply does not want to talk to anybody who thinks she is a nobody.

There are scars on my back. A few are hidden by my skin but most are not, and rest are there for my clothes to see and nobody else but me.
Even though I really do not want to, I cannot help but look at them every day, stare at the bruises, not even needing to blink.
And even if they do some day fade away and disappear when I am old and grey, how can I ever forget them? How can you forget a thing that has clutched to you like a parasite for years, your little, terrible, unwanted secret?
Even if I had the chance to give them up, I can’t. I can’t part with my demons, because they have always been with me when you have not, and they are reliable when you are not; constantly torturing me when you can’t even offer a single hug.

They form a strange sort of pattern. The largest, darkest one rests on my spine, a collection of bones that stuck out a little too far even before the incident, a sort of stegosaurus or whatever those dinosaurs are - I’m no expert - if you will.
The incident, the one where you pushed me into the lockers so hard that my stegosaurus spine crashed into the protruding locks so that I now have a scar
And one less friend.
And I remember this each morning and each night and each time I turn around when no one is looking and change my clothes and take so long because I am looking at that scar.
That one long scar, that one long scar that screams to me that this spine is not healthy and that you were not healthy and that life isn’t healthy simply because it is not fair
And I agree with that scar and trace my stegosaurus spine and pull down my shirt and my hair and cover it all up despite the fact that no one will probably notice anyway.

I am afraid to wear a bathing suit, or buy shirts and dresses with low backs, or wear crop tops or cut my hair and only on good days may I allow myself to pin it up.
And I can never be as flawless as the girls in the magazines or even have eyes as pretty as that one girl in my Chemistry class or skin as clear as the girl’s in English.
I only know the curvy figures of nonlinear graphs and can only sigh when those powerful, a**-kicking woman pass by
And so I sigh constantly
I want to need no man yet have all the men I want and I want to be the hero and that revolutionary fictional character and that female CEO in generic movies

But it is so hard to stop staring at all my scars,
To forget,
To move on and I am trying
I am trying so very hard and I can make it most days now without thinking about them
But every so often I touch the rough skin and I am thrust through a door to my memories and someone has locked it from the outside.
But there are times when I can do it. When I can conquer my own emotions and finally feel in control
When I can take my demons out without getting stuck on their evil morbidity
And just hold them close to my heart,
Remembering with numbness that each one meant I lost someone but
Also that I stopped crying about that loss and I don’t need any sympathy cards,
And I can take my demons out and pretend like I am a powerful, bada** stegosaurus
And that is close enough.