Ink On Her Hands

Why can't I just exist?
Why must you break me down to build me up?
I'm standing right here.
I'm looking straight into your eyes.
You look back and whisper, "I wish I could have a daughter."
And he replies, "Just leave it alone. She isn't worth it."
The words ring empty, but they bruise.
They fall, they shatter, and so do I.

I bend until my bones break.
I twist myself into a shape you can love.
I try to be a good daughter.
I try to be a quiet friend.
I try to be a perfect sister.
You tell me "Nobody's perfect,"
yet you grade every word I speak.
You lie with a siren's voice.

Where did she go?
The loud little girl with ink on her hands.
The creative child who drew on the walls and sang out loud.
The free girl who never worried about clothes, or dating, or words.
I locked her away.
You traded her for a ghost who obeys.

I'm still standing here.
I'm tired of breaking for your approval.
The words still hurt, but I'm starting to see the mirror.
I will drop the heavy shards of who you want me to be.
I will let the little girl breathe again.