She serves as a reminder Of who I don’t want to be Who would've guessed The person who gave me life Would also be the one who gave me grief?
I spend my days taking note of These little mannerisms Her methods of talking The various masks she stockpiles It pisses me off But more so when I follow suit
We all like to tell ourselves We’re our own person Our past doesn’t define us It’s comforting We do it constantly just to cope I’m no different
Even when I’m consistently crushed By the realization That despite my best efforts She’s still there.
In my voice In my actions When I lash out From my short temper Desire for control And inherited self-loathing
When I think About how I’m higher than others (I don’t really think that, right?) About politics and religion (How can I possibly share blood with you?)
When I become paralyzed By the thought That I’m not who I think I am That I’m not who I want to be That she’ll never leave me.