I know how you are, my dear- how you only ever give fifty percent of a damn. I know how on the inside, you are a contorted, bloody mess. I could tell you all about how the look in your eyes is only half the truth. I could tell you that you spend seven minutes and twenty-one seconds every morning coating your fake lashes in the grime you call mascara. I know how your contorted mind craves those envious glances.
And I know I could look past your exterior and into your soul and shout obscenities.
Because you're ugly, deceitful, unruly, crude; you’re rotten to the core.
I could scream louder than the stars shine at night.

And I could do it because,
You in your naivety, your child-like ignorance,
are my best friend- true and tried. Because I know how you cry at the fall of a feather and the touch of the sun on your cheeks. I know the bittersweet melody you hum on cold winter nights as you wish on imaginary stars. I could tell you everything about how you wake up early in the mornings just to watch the sun rise and whisper to yourself over and over that your existence is not a lie.

And I could say with utmost certainty that I despise you for everything you pretend to be.
I could tell you because I love you.
And I could tell you because you are me.