As she spoke the sickly sweet satire dripped from her tongue like little beads of venom.

Even so, I still sit and listen and watch as she laughs and giggles and flips her green hair,newly dyed, acting like nothing bothers her. But when she finally gets me alone and says her secrets she often gets a look in her eyes, desperation, and almost always partially whimpers. The kind where you try to stay calm but you’re really ready to cry.

We have an understanding,her and I, that you don’t ask unless told.I know she knows about my past. She knows I’ll never tell. We both can agree that much. She’s just as broken as I,mostly wild and untamed and falling apart inside. I think she might be the only person in the world that I trust without hesitation. Looking back, I know I’m wrong.

She tells me I’m different.She says I’m not like the other girls. The ones who happen to talk about her behind her back. She whispers, you don’t judge like they do. She always looks down at her feet. Seconds later we pass someone and she lights up, fake and dry and nowhere close to tears, but I see right through her. I can see that she isn't happy on the inside. I notice when she looks down at herself and frowns. I know what she sees, because I see it on myself. I see that we both hide behind mock confidence. She see’s me for who I am and knows that her sickly sweetness is the only thing keeping me afloat in my own reality.