“You are nothing like him.”

I am reminded daily.

I am nothing like him,

But I have his big brown eyes.

I have his caramel skin.

I have his deep brown hair,

Rarely worn naturally.

I don’t want his curls, too.

He writes. Well, he wrote.

I couldn’t tell you if he still does.

Writing…

Poetry…

My favorite.

I exist, soaked in guilt for all that I am.

All the traits I inherited from him,

Fearful they will remind my mother of him.

I cry over this often,

Tears seeping through his eyes,

Eyes that are planted above my mother’s cheekbones.

I am ashamed.

I am nothing like him.

But what if I am?

How am I so scared of being someone I don’t know?

What if I remind my mother of him?

What if I am my father?