Are these my hands, or are they yours?
Are these my eyes, or are they yours?
Where does your DNA end and my own begin?
You claim to know me but you only know of yourself. Only know of your passions, your desires, your journey. Yet you resign yourself to believing that mine are the same. As if I am a duplicate of your thoughts and expression, when you weren’t even around to see me begin.
You had the privilege of knowing me, and now I am beginning to feel as if I allowed you too much: that I let you look in while you closed your eyes, assuming you already knew the ending. You attempt to prepare me as if I haven’t already outlived your mistakes; your sad milestones that left you stagnant and afraid where I am now hopeful and persistent. You beg me to use caution where I’ve already succeeded, daring me to lie to myself about your failures and label them instead as my training. If I didn’t have your eyes, or your nose, or your incredibly obnoxious laugh, we would be opposites. And yet I am forever forced to be as much a part of you as you will always be a part of me.
© seeminglyhuman