Those Diabolical Little Lies

You may be alcoholic, drugaholic, sympho-holic but I don't care. I hate you, you know that. I hate your dramatic glares as you think my back is turned, and your sour words that churls milk. You try to act cool, detached from the worries everyone else, except for me, seem to wring wrists about - bodies, clothes, mascara, boy friends, heels.

When the talk's about beauty, people actually admire you with your make-up crust of a face and you say that you are ugly, just to hear them tell you that you 'are not'. I caught you staring and admiring your own reflection last Friday and you told me off saying, 'stop stalking you'. Well, who would stalk and ugly pie like that?

You are an attention seeker. Last week, you burst into tears in math just because you 'couldn't' solve the question. I know you want people follow you in large stampedes, but for as long as I live, trust me, dear adversary- it will not happen.

I hate you because I'm confused. Why bother constructing a fake 'perfect' facade from marshmallows? Do you lack the bricks? One day it will fall, and you will feel the weight of it all upon you.

I'm around the same age as you, we are both girls in our teens. You are insecure but I am not. Yes, I am an complete oddity, I embrace that fact because I was born that way. I'm proud that I am me and me is not someone like you.

By the way, I don't really hate you... I want you to feel better about yourself because sans insecurity and you're perfect. Sans security, your a mess.

I've seen through you.

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