I hate the way you make me care. You talk endlessly and often and I find myself bored, then oppressed and then finally caring for you. You are nothing. The poor little rich girl. The image no one wants to look at long enough, for fear of noticing your own reflection. You talk and I turn. It's an act I know well.
Today I felt for you. A feeling I wanted to contain. But, it hit me- like friendship and sistership and all the other ships I wish I could sink instead of sail. You lied to me and I accepted it as your truth. You wrap your distorted stories up so nicely- I feel gifted.
Well, stop! Take your tales and find a better listener. I have had enough and then some. I feel like I have been beaten by your games.
And I have decided that the worst thing is that I am your friend.
Because, I am. I really am.
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