I don’t blame you.
Honestly, I don’t.

I don’t blame you for judging me,
labeling me,
for me.

I’m a twin.
Apparently, I should know exactly where the other half is.:
I should know exactly what she’s thinking.
Exactly what’s going through her mind,
and apparently, I don’t have that power.

I’m a twin.
I don’t get everything I want.
I have to have approval
by the other half
before I get anything.
I don’t know about you,
but that’s why I don’t have good things.

“I don’t want to make her feel bad!”
You think you’re being nice.
You think your saying
“I’m trying to help the both of you!”
To me you’re saying
“You don’t get this because you’re different than everyone else!”
Didn’t we get past that?
Didn’t we get past people supposedly being less fortunate
because they were born different?

I have blonde hair.
I hate blonde jokes.
A blonde crashed a helicopter.
A police officer asked what happened.
She says, “it got cold so I turned the fan off”!”
Haha. I get it.
It’s funny because blondes are dumb.
Blondes are stupid.
Blondes are special.
Ok. I guess I shouldn’t be here right now.
Giving this poem.
Bye then!

Oh, wait!
But that’s not all!
I have blue eyes too!
I must be Barbie!
Blonde hair? Blue eyes?
I’m a Barbie girl in a normal world.
Life in plastic…
fantastic is not the word.

Constantly getting judged
because I am a twin.
Because I am a blonde.
Because I am a Barbie.
I’m a dumb, know-it-all, Barbie.

Does that make any sense to you?
Cause even though I am a blonde,
and it might be different since my own mind is different
than a brunette,
it doesn’t to me.

you judged me
out of my own beauty
the same way you judged yourself
out of that dress

I'm a spinster,
sick of seeing my
sisters treated as
flowers
picked and wilted.
Their petals
ripped and ragged.
In a cloudy vase --
the water needs changing,
but what's the point,
at this point?
She died when
you picked her --
cut from her roots,
She is lacking nutrition,
She can no longer absorb
the wind's wild sustenance.
She is too preoccupied
trying to survive,
under-appreciated,
and ill-cared for.

Soon,
when she is dry
brown,
brittle,
into the compost,
she goes.
Fertile,
rooting another
devastatingly
beautiful,
flower,
told to wait
for someone to
pick her.

But if you think
a flower is beautiful,
let her remain
with her sisters.