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 dispensers And salt shakers, or under the linoleum where I’d gladly call it home for a few days 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.