Building Figments

Banging on a broken vessel in the spirit of its changing.
Carrying it without cause to nurture its growth.
While I deteriorated. 
While I loathed. 
You broke me. Shattered, threw, hated.
Yet when you look at me, all you see is yourself with years stripped off the shelf.
Memories stolen from thousands of places.
The most wondrous thing about figments, the thing they never truly confess,
Is that they are mirror images we never fully undress.
We never concede to feel such a despicable mess.
So we gather it, break it down and build it into a body.
A place to push the guilt, envy and shame.
The someone that you never became. 
The thing about figments, however close to reality they seem to be,
They never live by reason nor under the weight of gravity.
They live in the imagination
They live in your head, that shakes and quakes and can never be satisfied.
The one searching for a vendetta.
The mind that is cracked and distorted inside.
I do not live in your mind.
I am not a figment.
I am not you.
I am not what you expect me to be.
I am your daughter, the one you always looked to.
In both figment and reality.
I was here, the whole time.
Now watch me leave it all behind.