I don’t look right.

I mean, I don’t look the way I should.

My shoulder shouldn’t look like a surfboard, they said.

Well Mom and Dad; your suspicions were right,

But it’s not what they thought.

It’s not what I thought.

40. 

38.

A double curve.

Scoliosis.

I could have surgery.

What is this—

Why me—

Why now—

Will this change my life—

What is happening to me?

Exercises were a chore, now they just take forever.

I hear the crackling of the velcro as I strap into it.

I wince when I feel my plastic cage piercing into my skin.

The evidence? Circles traced on my skin in a cherry red colour.

But I stomach it every time.

I have to, until I can’t take it.

(At least you’ll have a killer waistline, people have said.)

Was that supposed to make me feel better?

Sometimes, it felt so good to catch a break.

To feel pretty, to feel normal, even if it’s for a few hours.

I tried to fix it, both my back and this stupid brace.

I hate this, I thought:

I hate it.

I hate it.

I hate it.

But what can I do? All I can do is fight.

And that’s what I do.

I fight.

Besides, it’s not so bad anymore.

I’m still me, after all.