From Scarface to Miss Bitchin’

They called me Scarface as a kid,

From a disfigurement that could not be hid.

The shape of California was on my right cheek,

Presenting itself to my classmates all week.

When I was born, I scratched myself deep,

Leaving a wound that I was forced to keep.

The hospital staff apparently ignored my distress,

And my adopted parents attempted to fix the ugly mess.

Useless ointments and creams were applied daily for years,

While the taunting and cruelty of children often brought me to tears.

The summer before junior high, I had plastic surgery twice,

The doctor scraped my cheek with a circular metal blade — hardly nice.

Since the remains of the scar were still there,

Over Christmas break, a third procedure I did bear.

Without the distracting scar, my self-confidence did soar,

Now the neighborhood kids would tease me no more.

When I declared that I only dated boys in high school,

Some kids on my street decided I had become too cool.

One morning —soon after — as I was running late,

The bus driver stopped to pick me up at my house, thus sealing my fate.

My life would no longer be the same,

As Miss Bitchin’ had become my new nickname.