Looking at your face makes me sick. Even the smallest piece of you in my view is a sore. You must have seen it –how hard I try to avoid eye contact and the fact that you’re actually around. You must have felt it –the heat of anger and hatred boiling inside me. You must have heard it –the way I talk to you. It’s all not the same anymore. I used to look up to you, you know. I thought you were someone worth remembering. But then again, I had the wrong impression.


Your voice annoys me, and your immaturity… Can’t you at least try to put it in place? You’re so unorganized! You’re an eyesore. Who told you to bring all your stuff into my room? Dumb ass bitch, this is my fucking house. 


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