She is not me.
I am not her.
Yet you cling to her memory,
the artifacts she left without knowing how soon she’d be gone,
and you force me to gaze upon them.
You believe showing me proof of her existence will inspire me to be like her.
You think I’ll admire her and the things she left behind.
You tell me that is who I’m supposed to be,
and I don’t understand it.
I’m actually content with the person I’ve become.
I don’t get why you want me to be someone else.
You pray my indifference will give way to ambition,
and completely fail to notice:
I can’t be molded to your vision.
I’m living for myself and the ones I love, not you.
I don’t give a shit who you want me to be.
I am not her.
She is not me.
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