The Real Me

I ask mom

Is this a crime?

Disgusted she turns away.

I ask dad

What have I done?

Nothing, he says,

But you are not the baby girl

I used to know.

Give me an answer,

To them I plea,

Tell me what I have done

To break your heart.

I bit well with your rules:

Do not use drugs, or indulged

In pornographic studies;

These are the things you used to tell me.

I resist even the temptation

Of pre-marital sex.

But why the cold shoulder?

Am I not the same old child,

Albeit grown up and a little more mature?

But shaking their heads

They turn away.

You never listen to me;

You never understand me.

I am sick of it.

And do you know what?

This is my choice,

This is my style;

This is the real me.

Like it or not.