The tears come so easily.
I allow them to sometimes.
But other times, I don't want anyone to know.
They make me seem so weak.
I wish I could be as cold as you seem.
You don't seem to care about me at all.
Why so many lies?
Why do you pretend to care one second, then the next totally opposite?
I don't understand you.
Then again, you don't understand me either.
Nor do you care to.
Nobody understands why I hide.
Why I hide behind a mask of cheerfulness.
But I do.
Because I refuse to let anyone know my weaknesses.
If you're not weak, you don't get hurt.
But I do.
I get hurt.
You are usually the one who hurts me.
Only you.
Only you know how to hurt me so much,
and you seem to love doing it so often.
With your lies.
With your false hopes.
With your wanting me to be the perfect daughter.
But I'm not.
And I never can be.
Because you're holding me down.
Pulling me down.
I can't grow with your hands on me.
And you know it.
You don't want your little girl to be independent.
You want her to stay a little girl.
But I'm not.
And I never will.
I will always hide myself from you.
And when you're dying and wondering why your daughter hasn't called you,
in so many, many years,
You'll remember trying to force her to do your bidding,
to try and make her like you.
But I'm already so much like you.
And it gets me in trouble.
Because you know your little girl is growing up.
Because she's growing up to be just like you.
But better.
She's learning how to think for herself and that kills you.
Because you know that means you can't make her decisions any more.
All you can do is watch her if she's making a mistake.
Because you can't think for her anymore.
And she is happy.
Happy to make her own mistakes.
Happy to learn from them.
Happy to be thinking for herself.
I am happy to have a mind of my own.
Stop trying to take it from me.
Or else your dying day will be my happiest.