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Make-up. Genetically defines you, and physically covers you.
Words. They inflict so much pain when told I look like "that woman."
Tears. Silent in the night as they fall on my pillow after fighting the world.
Make-up. Genetically passed down to me,
fat, I'm told that I don't want to end up like "that woman" and gain more weight.
Words. They must be thought through before I lose my temper,
I would blow up in their faces if I didn't hide; inflicting everything they've inflicted on me; apologies, they're worthless anymore it only makes the words go away until the night comes.
Tears. Sobs, that silently rack my body-
until I'm exhausted and passed out.
Make-up. Too much and I look like "that woman",
hiding from reality because my personality and "hypocritical ways" are:
"Like her son's".
Words. Meaningless unless intended to bring pain. Searing the mind like searing the skin with a cattle brand.
Tears. A sign of strength, weakness, sorrow, and pain. The cheeks stained but smile plastered.
Make-up. A constant reminder of eyes of which are full of sorrow and hate because they sprout from "her son", curls are a constant reminder of what childhood was for "her son", my "bad mannerisms" are "like her son's".
Words. None will know that silence is the most deadliest thing that could come out of my mouth.
Tears. That no one sees or ever will.
Don't define what I am or who I will be... Dreams show what and who I am.
My Make-up doesn't matter. I'm never like "that woman" and nobody knows that I'm "her son's daughter". Chocolate brown eyes, unruly thick hair with untamable curls, and a set of canine teeth that have minds of their own.
Thick fingers, that have a stocky man-like set to them, body that is "genetically," "that woman's" fault. Feet that exceed what is "natural". Complexion that changes constantly.
My "mannerisms" that come from "her son" don't just come from "that woman" and "her son" they come from lessons learned and taught.
Eyes that are outlined physically... and no one sees the pain, all they see is the darkness and "that woman" with her "overdone make-up" around her piercing crude and evil eyes.
People say they wish they had the roaring curls of a lion like me.... I wish they had them too, I don't want a constant a constant reminder of being "her son's daughter" And having "that woman's" genetics in my blood through "her son's" “mistake”.
Face that stares back at me every day, wounded in battle, scared from past wars, and a body that doesn't want to fight anymore.
If I'm so much like "that woman" and "her son"... I ask... why keep me?
Is it because of my blonde hair? My 5'3 3/4" height? Why keep a constant reminder of "her son" and "that woman"? Why remind me that I'm turning into the person I hate without much choice? Why keep me? We both know that you can't stand me and the way I act like "that woman" and "her son", so again... why keep the "genetic copy of "her son"”?
I won't be defined by "that woman" or "her son", I won't be defined by the second child whom doesn't act like "that woman" or "her son" when you're around; whom you expect me to look up too with such adoration and praise when he’s just as much a “genetic copy” than I am… just younger and “more innocent”? You say?
I know different... but I'm tired of trying to prove to you that you condemn what you don't want to see.
Believe it or not I am "that woman's son's daughter."
I am a genetic copy of whom I hate, I am a genetic copy of a war that started before you even knew it... what are you fighting for?
A constant war.
It will never end.
Don't define me until I live my life to the fullest, don't judge me by "that woman" or "her son", and don't remind me of what I tell my reflection everyday... I'm turning into Daddy.