Identity
I cannot look into the mirror
and recognize the girl before me.
She is not me.
I am not her.
She is a mask,
a persona stitched together
from everything I hate.
the hair.
the makeup.
the clothes.
None of it was ever me.
I was the one holding the brush,
as she sat in harmony with everyone around her.
She didn’t wash the blood from her hands,
Yet I had no choice.
She was admired,
I was bullied,
bruised and blamed.
I am me:
withered,
hollow,
alone.
She is her own:
graceful,
adored,
followed.
Yet i am the follower,
as she holds the crown.
And still, I shape myself into her mold.
She holds the key,
I wait in terror.
But as she sets me free,
and my feet finally cross her ground,
I realize…
I am her,
And she is me.
K