Mother wept for weeks when you died. Her cries rang throughout the house as if she had put a microphone up to her mouth. She demanded to know why I killed her daughter. Where was the daughter who wore floral skirts to spin around in? Where was the daughter who wore shimmering gold makeup as a way to be pretty? Where was the daughter that begged for her hair braided like Katniss every morning? She demanded answers but I don’t know if you actually ever existed.
I know you tried to exist. I know you kept trying to stop me from ‘taking your place’ by devouring every feminine stereotype you could find. I couldn’t live repressed under emotions you refused to address. I couldn’t survive as you tried every title besides the correct one. I couldn’t stand the sight of you in the mirror or photos I still can’t.
Maybe I did **** you as I cut my hair shorter than you wanted. I killed you by throwing out all your favorite clothing items. I killed you by no longer letting you be the ideal daughter. I killed you just like I started to **** our family. All it took was a simple letter saying I wasn’t a girl, but instead a boy. The silent treatment felt more like a punishment for wanting to be me. I was cut off while I still lived in the same house as them. The only thing is that I would **** you again, but only if I got to see you crumble away every time.
I turned this in for my creative writing class and thought I'd share