To Her:

She called me those names again: selfish, worthless, useless. It's to the point where I begin to believe her. I'd ask my friends, see if maybe she was right, see if maybe my personality did contain all of those things, but I knew what they would say; She was wrong. I was everything far from her insults.
But of course they wouldn't understand anyway, wouldn't even concider the fact that she called me those things. Because as they see her, she wears the mask she never really wants to put on for me. She's bright, beautiful, loving, always asks if they could stay for dinner. She's funny; and loves to make jests on my behalf. And they'd just have to laugh at them because her mouth formed the words so perfectly that they wouldn't think that the joke actually hurt me, when they do, especially when she of all people tells them.

I won't really understand what your definition of the perfect me is.
And even if you knew, just to mess with me, you'd love to keep it secret.
Do what you want - complain to me, never ask how my day was, expect me to clean your world ever single night - and leave me to watch my brother.
Don't forcus on the unperfect me, focus on you, the uncaring mother.