She curls up her fingers and sharpens her nails, ready to tear my ears out for every time she tells me the story; the story about that never ending cycle of hurt. She reads my mind like a book; a book she's been waiting to burn for the poorly written sentiments that do not console her on a sleepless night. She strokes my hair with the back of her hand for her bare palms are too sensitive to feel the rough roots of my malnourished hair. In her eyes I see the burden of human emotions, thoughts about spirituality and responsibility, for the eyes give everything away like they do so freely with their tears. Her lips are almost colorless yet she constantly applies and re-applies her Nivea, Strawberry flavored. She carries in her soul a torch that burns so brightly, even her everlasting flow of tears cannot light out. She is the epitome of a lovesick teenager, she is the idol of worship for heartbroken teenage girls everywhere, she is this contagious disease that strikes the age of depression in everyone. She, is my best friend.
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