What am I? 

Nothing. 

What will anyone remember? 

What does anyone remember now? 

A lunatic,

Crazed, perhaps? 

She tore down the mirror with hand-tipped claws.

A /mono/ possibly, /Mona/

Up the tree, a little tipped in the brain, 

Simple. 

Or even a red star burning out, 

Terrible and sublime (sub-lime) for a while, 

But in the end, 

Quite disappointing. 

I really am nothing that is thought of me, 

Only a hollow voice and a thirsty ego. 

A little too eager to please, 

But soul-dehydrating fearful of 

Falling short of all of your expectations.