My sister has your face, and I have your temperament.
Until today I don’t know who’s better off.

If we could call it a curse, then hers was stamped on since puberty. Immediate association. But your gift to me, I’m learning about it everyday.

Your wall, your pedestal? Stuff I never want to own. But why do I feel it’s building itself? Genetics puts things on automatic.
The less amount of time I put into it, the further I try to stay from you, the more I think of who I don’t want to be, it nags me still from the back of my head; it’s coming, the possibility is as real as ever oh it is near.
(It’ll kill the things I hold most dear.)

I don’t want your walls. I don’t want your intelligence, isolation, your independence. I don’t want the cold. I don’t want arrogance. I want my friends.

I don’t care that I feel the thinnest wall between myself and all of them, I don’t care that there’s a fibre I can’t break through, a stigma on my name, a stereotype on my head, a specialty label over my heart. I want them to believe I can be there for them nonetheless. The difference between you and me, are the friends we own. None for you, some for me. I’ll take what I got, I don’t care what you recommend. I’ll spread thin whatever love escapes from the cracks to whomever I feel deserves it. I don’t care what you think about them.

Because of them, I don’t care that I’m stuck with you.

My sister has your face, something she can’t erase. And I, I hope everyday that I won’t have your personality. Those don’t scrub off easy too. I don’t know if I dare to say it;