I am a mimic

Of color

And glass shard

I am a broken mirror

Reclecting every one I’ve ever loved

I am a soldier

Using every battle tactic I’ve been thought

To survive the world that’s been crafted for me

I am a painting

I have all their favorite colors

Yet not one shade of mine

I am a field

Of a thousand different flowers

Not one do I get to pick

I am a farmer

Weeds grow between the seeds of crops

That I did not plant

I am a thousand colored scarf

Woven with needles

That I have not held

I’m a mosiac of everything I’ve ever seen

And everything they want me to be

But no part of my mosiac do I call mine