No matter how much I don’t want it to be
I am the person , inside somewhere, that my mother molded me as.
I cannot escape the inferior overtones I feel
I will not let myself ever cone first
When I go out in public, I will feel on display
As if I am so important that someone is watching my every move.
I will smile, all the while my heart feels sad.
Crying only to ease my insecurities that of which I need to know I am human.
When preparing my house for visitors, I am my own worst critic
I will never feel quite enough, or adequate
I will hear things like, ” you are beautiful”, yet never will I agree.
I love you will be in need to prove to others, I care.
Satisfaction will never be, for me, cause I will never be worth obtaining it.
Succumbed I will give up, give in, give it all
Without so much a word like thanks
I am the mold she set out to make, not on purpose necessarily but because
I am not, nor ever will be, just me.