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Rage builds between us like a solid brick wall.
Her tolerance is a half-burnt candle wick,
and I am the flame that continues to feed it.
Although she is only two years older,
it seems as though she is much older at times.
Tempers ignite, pushing ourselves farther apart
than we actually are.
Our maturity level may occasionally be similar,
but she will always be my little sister.
Once war breaks out, insults continue to fly
across the room until an armistice is settled.
I am the itch that crawls up and down her arm,
and she will do anything to stop it.
They cannot stand me.
I incessantly talk; sing awfully, form words of nonsense,
steal their clothes, and run late for everything.
It would be impossible not to be annoyed by me,
and it is often a miracle that they can put up with me.
But for every fight we’ve had, we’ve had one hundred
laughs. We’re sisters and we’re best friends, and we will be