Mirror, mirror,
On the wall,
Who is the biggest copycat of all?
.
Mom is obsessed with my outfits
And my zest.
She cannot master her own style,
So she wears my pink bows with a smile.
.
She is copy and paste,
Nothing she wears is her own taste!
She takes my pictures, and hopes:
That I'm her show girl,
Her mirror girl.
.
She boasts my accomplishments,
And brags that I am a little her,
She bends and twists my story,
Until we're all a blur.
.
Mother gave everyone a show:
It was never enough for her folks.
People that should have nourished her buds the most.
.
The ones who should have helped her bloom
Left thorns rather than hope.
She used rouge, and covered every bruise,
But blossoms never grew.
.
She projects her reality
And often says she looks like me.
She copies my hair, and my style:
Forever, is she just my shadow.
.
Her criticism is the apple.
She eats from the same old tree —
The one I thought had stolen,
The mother from me.
.
She meets the window pane
And envies the pretty girl with frills,
who lives outside the cracked window's frame,
Who doesn't even understand the game.
.
This display of affection and bows
That reflects mirror girl,
Cuts my core.
Our buds grew from the same weathered tree
But blossomed differently.
.
Mirror, mirror,
You shatter and cover the floor,
Mother and I cannot stand together,
There is no reflection anymore.