I touch the side of my thigh and feel the familiar ridges and raised skin, that I can not decide if I’m proud of them or asaimed. I could point to each and every one and say the reason and date, but I don’t. My thoughts are more twisted than that kid in fourth periods spine, you know who I’m talking about. People will look at me and the way I present myself and make snap judgments. Those judgments leave little voices whispering about how you are wrong. Ignore the good ones, they say. They are wrong, they say. My face blends in a crowd so easily, don’t think I’m complaining, I want to blend into the crowd.