She’s a pretty doll. But she’s not me. She’s not anything but a toy.
I’m not sure I will be able to transfer my thoughts to her or use her as myself while telling her how she should feel about anything that’s ever happened.
She’s a toy, not real. I’m a grown woman, too real.
I don’t want to play games, but I see the significance of her.
She has pretty hair, pretty blank eyes, nice lips. She’s ok, but the emphasis is on empty right now.
I’ve decided to name her Meme.
Me, the skinny bitch.
Me, the happy mother and homemaker.
Me, the child.
Me, the woman.
Meme is everything that I am – and I guess what I am not, but want to be.
Me everything.
Me elusive.
Me, the angry.
Me, the sad.
Me the frightened.
Me, the weak.
Me, the big mouth.
Me, who doesn’t listen.
Me, the unwise.
Me, the unworthy.
Me, the fat.
Me, the lonely.
The me I cannot own, but now do – literally in her.
Yep, it’s all about Meme and me.
I hate her.