I don't know why I care so much what you think. You're an apparition I dreamed up when I was six. You exist in the sighs my mother exhales when I've disappointed her once again. Or at least I think it's disappointment. Truth is, I want to throw up when I think about myself and the way she perceives me. No good reason, really.
That's what you're there for. The ideal. The golden child. A goal, in a way. Like Sisyphus on a hill, I struggle against the elements to become you, just so you like me. Because then that would mean I was exactly like you, and your face would eclipse mine in the mirror. Because otherwise I'm worth nothing, which is a hell of a lot worse than my imagined perception.
You're what my mother wishes she saw in me, but I am nothing like you. I wear my hair long and wild, I don't wear a bra, and I swear like a sailor. I'm what my mother wishes she could be. And I wish I was you.
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Musings and Tidbits
RandomSome writing prompts/random stories (one-shot) that come to me and I feel like sharing :)
