I Am Not Your Daughter
I Am Not Your Daughter
I am not your daughter
I will wear pink and red together
Just because they don’t match
I will dye my hair black
Not only just because you said not to
But because I know I’m not a blonde
At heart, like you. Even though when my hair’s
Natural it’s blonde and when yours is natural
It’s gray. And how bout next time you
Wanna lecture me about my weight
I give you a lecture on how your issues with control
gave me issues with my weight in the first place.
Now I’ll dye my hair red and it’s worth
The criticizing glances I get from all kinds of elders
Oh she’s just going through that phase!
Because your looks are not less than or equal to but GREATER
Than any judgemental stare I get from anyone else.
I’ll dye my hair red to un-match myself from you because
I’m not your daughter.
And I wouldn’t be prettier if I had your nose
Some people like me the way I am
So forget you and forget your husband
And maybe if you hadn’t been forgetting dad
In the first place
This premature mistake would never have been born
September 1st 1984, 2:40 am
Sorry for waking you up in the middle of the night, mom!
And sorry for having such a big head!
It was all my fault.
None of my genes were ever yours,
I don’t know where they came from…
Probably from hell.
And that’s why my hair is red
Burning with hate towards you.
I don’t know where my head got stuck…somewhere between the napkin
And salt shakers, or under the linoleum where I’d gladly call it home for a few
It frightens me to write these words
And if frightens me to think of what you might think of what I’m thinking
But you’re my friend and you won’t judege, will you?
Somewhere between a rock and a resting place lies the sound system playing
Rock and roll in my ears and if you’re lucky, we’ll roll in bed
And not a rock and if yo’ure less lucky we’ll just keep climbing
In hopes to reach a height that isn’t even there.
We’ll read the manifestoes of idiots as if
We were the only idiots who cared.
Get out of my hair. You hate it when I call you that?
Well all morons hate it when you call them a moron
Because you’re pointing out the obvious
And the obvious isn’t obviously so great when we’re referring to those traits.
Now what is it that makes a poem so great?
I don’t know and I don’t care as long as it is and you stay out of my hair
And don’t touch me with your god-awful stares
Don’t feel me with your glances cuz trust me
Forget you and all you do and especially what you don’t
Cuz it’s what you don’t do that
Makes me wanna kill you.
Copyright © Brooke Wolfe