It's probably the deep-rooted jealousy that keeps me awake at night. The burning hatred that sears my very insides and causes water to well up in my sleep-deprived eyes is what intertwines with jealousy and makes it hard to breathe; my chest tightens and my hands clench up, and it's almost more than I can handle on a day-by-day basis. They like you better and we both know it; everyone prefers your stolen image, which is undeniably painful for me to stomach.

Your fucking smile, your fucking laugh, your fucking hair and make up, even the fucking clothes you bought at the same place I shop make me hate you to no end. You don't belong in the same group as I do; you don't belong in the same mindset as I'm in; you don't belong anywhere that I've set foot because we aren't one bit alike. It's as though you take my image and tweak little things so people think you're the new and improved model; you've yet to look back when I'm left to deal with every piss and shit problem that lies in your wake.

Listening to those "aware" bands doesn't make you any smarter; taking other peoples' ideas doesn't make you any cooler; changing yourself in to a whored-out image of someone on a poster doesn't make you a better person. As long as you've still got separate personalities for seperate people, you can't call yourself "true" or "real." As long as you're just a fun-house-mirror image of someone, you can't call yourself "alive" or "awake." As long as you're still oblivious to the real world, you can't call yourself "informed" or "understanding."

You can't complain about being angsty when every problem you've been through has been created by you.

You make me want to heave out my insides when you flirt with everything with two legs and a dick, all the while putting on a tragically lethargic front while you gaze off in to the night and mumble incoherently about how love has fucked you over.

If you aren't even old enough to drive a car, how fucking anguished can your love life have been? You preach about regret when you were given fair warning in the beginning; if you're not mature enough to listen, you're not mature enough to have relationships.

Maybe the resentment comes from having all I treasured be split in two. My life wasn't meant to be shared with another person; I carved it out with no help, all the while becoming pathetically jaded-- but I still had a grip on reality. I still could keep a level head and smile because somewhere, someone else was having a day more terrible than I could ever imagine surviving through. You, however, take your fucking electronic sweethearts and disperse them in to the tangible world like they matter; you've fallen in love with countless screen names and fonts, and you'll never be the same because of it.

Where ever my baby sister went, I hope she'll come back soon. The angry-eyed girl with the heavy makeup and the short skirts sure is a pain to live across; maybe my childhood friend will appear one day, amazingly clued in and grounded. The thought that the older girl is here to stay is almost bile-inducing, but it looks as though that's how the story will end.

Maybe I'm being critical. Maybe I'm being jealous. Maybe I'm really scared. It could be all three, but being analytical of myself was never a favourite past time of mine.

As the sun rises and sets respectively, I'm still watching out for the little girl I used to be able to count on; even if you're far away, do your best to come home soon and we can play together again. Though I'm really too aged for any of the old games, we can create new ones; anything to make this distorted copy of an obscene amount of people go away.