I’m Not You

People tell me who to be all the time, but I’m not them. I don’t act like them, I’m so different, and I love that.

I don’t want to be society’s cookie cutter girl. I’m not a fucking stereptype who can be labeled. I’m me.

And my foster mother hates that. She wants me to be a pink princess. She wants me to marry prince charming. She doesn’t want me to even think about me having a princess charming. I’m bisexual, a tomboy, and messed up. I’m not her. She doesn’t want me to be unique. If I told her that my dream is to be a Navy SEAL, she would smack the shit out of me.

It hurts to have my family look at me like i’m a thing; a piece of clay that can be molded into whatever they please, but what can you do?

For my birthday, my foster mom got me a bunch of clothes. There was a pink blouse, a short blue skirt, a purple shirt, and a necklace. I’m sure there are people who would love that stuff, but I’m perfectly happy in camo shirts and gym shorts. My foster mother knows that but she keeps trying to change me.

I don’t know why she does this. I’m never going to be her little princess. It’s kind of sad that she keeps trying because I’m a teengager, I’m way past that stage. I appreciate her buying me clothes, but they’re not my style.

She told me the other day, “Why don’t you like these clothes? Why don’t you want to dress like me? Why don’t you want to look pretty?

I told her, “I think I look pretty, beautiful even. I’m not you.”

She started to cry.