Am I good enough now Momma?
Now that I've fried my hair to perfection,
now that I've learned to walk quietly.
Because if I walk too loudly,
the monster will get me.
The monster that is you.

The monster that feeds upon vanity
and defecates on flaws.
The beast that turned my crayolas
into pretty paints meant to be smeared on my face,
not paper.

And I loved you, Momma.
For you I turned my body into a temple
of bones and skin,
hoping you would worship it,
but instead you wrecked it to the ground.

And I'm so afraid Momma.
Afraid you'll never love me.
Afraid you'll be found out.
Terrified that I will someday take the life you gave me.
But most of all,
I'm afraid that the monster that is you,
is becoming me.