I lied to myself to survive you.
I told myself that you had a heart.
That somewhere within the rough
Edges of your body there was love
For me, struggling but nevertheless
Bound to me.
I made this hypothetical flame bigger
Than it ever was and would be. I had to.
Or maybe that hurt me even more.
The disappointment gained more weight.
You are just like me. You are just like me.
You told me that, to control me, my growth,
Manipulate me into stagnancy and regression.
You meant you are just like me at my worst.
You abhorred the sight of me as you, of yourself within me.
You didn’t like yourself.
How could I ever hope for something grander?
Something better and more elaborate?
For love?
How did I dare to dream in those megalomaniacal proportions?
I guess I’m your daughter after all.
Croque-Melpomene 