Our shared self

I try to remember the resemblance between me and her.

I try to see the similarity in a smile that bares no pain at all.

Life hasn’t shaped her yet. She still only sees neon colors

I look into her eyes and all I see is childish joy. She is a child after all

I don’t want to be her. I hate her innocence. Her face isn’t something to remember

They say her dresses are cute, but I find them dull.

People feel joy when looking at her, but she’s not supposed to be special.

I am. I need to be, because what else is there?

I want to be remembered. I want to be loved. I want to be hated. I want EVERYTHING.

She is not like me.

Still there is one thing, one resemblance…

I still giggle like she did when I turn the paper.

I still scream and curse when the second hand embarrassment hits me like she did.

I still cry like she did when she wanted to follow, but only saw nothingness behind the door.

In that sense we are the same. She might be dead. Buried behind a face that still resembles her.

Buried deep in a heart that once had been hers.

Still, she comes back to life when I open a book and I embrace her.

She is me after all.