She has a back bone like none

(Allpoetry image prompt) 

We have all been scarred by life.

Some wear these in plain sight,
they display them in soft sobs
feed them as spicy cookie crosses
and blame them for the tortuous
ways of the lines in their hands.

Some cover them with colorful tunics,
the playful patterns dwell over raw meet
skinned by this melodic charade
of gardens of puppies and kittens
and over sweetened honey teas.

Some stick hard to the bones,
like vines on the worked stone
of an abandoned Victorian house,
the body grows mapping its grooves,
a Gardner's Siamese surgery.

She?

Before the first air stole her cry
her mother shirked at her hold,
what demon had tricked her whom?
The mother drowned in apocalypse now
while her first step got her closer to the door.

Her words as she took to it:
"there is no space in tight shoes
for feet to grow."
And she planted them on her own
on the hardest ground she knew.

She wore now the tattoo on her back,
an uneven waterfall of lumps
that jumped rope her spine childish,
as a testimony to the sturdy scalpels
and the coaching overload of nerves.

The story it told as I traced her naked lines
made all other women shrink
to barbie dolls in dream houses
and her lips had to teach mine to breathe
just to keep me from crying.