I should start writing again.
Start crafting my thoughts into words instead of
watching your every move.
Start writing again instead of
envying
you,
girl with the make-up.
Girl with the tools to use it.
Girl that should go to beauty school .
You, girl, who wants to get paid to be
pretty.
And I have to wonder why it is
you
that I envy.
Why not the smart girls?
The successful girls?
No, you.
With the boyfriend who you love who does
everything
for you.
You, who has barely reached the cusp of adulthood
with no adult mentality
to show for it.
Why you?
With the glamorous life,
that I so envy.
Because I should know better.
That every glamorous life is riddled with
sickness and
sadness.
But I envy you,
girl.
Me with my lonely little scribbles,
and you
with your thousands of loyal, devoted followers.
They don't know you any better than I do .
Yet I am the one writing a poem about
you.
The girl who I am so intrigued by,
for reasons unbeknownst to me.
The girl who's glamorous life I can see right through.
I envy you.