At some point, I could no longer recognise my hands as my own, but as my mother’s. While I was too lost trying to claim life mine and fit it into my palm, the back of my hands grew veins and knuckles that I only recognise from snatches of memories in tense movement. I recognise it with an involuntary fear. I recognise it with a flinch.
There’s a chance the change will spread and it’ll happen when I’m not looking. Like adisease, I will find that my face is no longer my own, my soul is no longer my own, what I built on my own.
Bit by bit I will turn into the failure she always said she was, she always said I was destined to be. She never said the words that ran through both of our minds, that it’s in the blood that she has given to me, in the genes that it carried.
A fate written, to be passed unhindered in its course by whatever might with which we may try to change it.
She never said it, but no feminist can dare say it. She forces on us women’s lib but never believed it. Its ironic, because all of us believed it but her.
Bit by bit I will turn from daddy’s girl to mamma’s girl, as society sees it.
“Its never the father’s fault when the child fails, its the mother’s.”
Society said it, she said it, but neither knows why.
There’s a fear that haunts me as I keep moving, a fear that I will one day recognise myself as nothing but parts of her.

I dream of hands pounding my back and face in the night, and wake with the sound of thunder in my chest that has followed me since I can remember.


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