I don’t fit into your perfect mold,
So callously created to belittle me.
My wrinkled music tees greatly contrast to your perfect child’s denim shirt,
My sneakers pale in comparison to her boots.
Her long braided hair leaves my short, choppy style far behind.
My vernacular includes “why”, while the word has never crossed her mind.
She jumps on command, while I find such mindless obedience oppressive.
She rides horses, while I’d much rather stretch out under an open sky.
I protest when you hasten to anger, while she allows such abuse to continue.
Is she who you pretend I am when I can’t be her?
Would you rather her take my place?
I doubt you’d give up on her like you have me.
Do you want me to grow my hair out?
Wear a cowboy hat, and boots?
Would you try to love me then?
Would you catch the smiles I aim at you?
No, probably not. For how could I ever live up to HER reputation?
Your other child is perfect.
She feels no loneliness, no abandonment.
She never makes the mistake of thinking for herself.
I never can, never will be her.
I’m not perfect, but I love you too.