My laugh is Mom’s.

My humour is Dad’s.

An accent extracted from the people around me.

Maybe my love for the countryside is justified.

Maybe my dislike for heights is fair.

Maybe the reason I hate the city is that my mind’s been molded outside of there.

I stole that joke from someone else.

I thought it was funny in the moment, and so did you.

I’m merely a puppet behind the strings,

comandeering this ship of thoughts

picking and choosing like apples from a tree

deciding which quality is best for me.

The rotten ones get tossed away,

And shining ones I hold—

brighter red than the leaves in mid-autumn,

right there,

in the palm of my hand,

A glittering gold.

Am I as kind as you say I am?

Or is that something I’ve learned from you,

or trained myself in your presence to be?

Are you my psychology? Am I yours?

Are these questions a formulation of my mind or others evolved?

I’m still someone you’d come to for advice,

but are my words enough?

To get the truth,

the certainty that they are purely mine,

distill them under water.

Analyse them under scrutiny.

Pray they come out as bright red as I hope them to be.