Are you restless like me?

What Happened to My Little Sister?

Bitter apologies.
Sneering, condescending remarks.
Glares and stares and smeared make up.
Lies.
Antagonizing and patronizing.
Text messages and secret phone calls on the porch.
Fuck you.
Go to hell.
Fucking bitch.
He's an ass.
You're a guest in my fucking house.
What the hell are you looking at?
Then I guess my ass is going to be fucking sorry.
She deserved it, no she deserved to have it hit her.
Well now I have my own friends, and it's nice.
It's nice.
Nice.
I'll be home at 9.
I'm not coming home tonight.
Worried and angry and unsure of what went wrong.
Can't you see what you're doing to her?
Can't think of anyone but yourself.
Friends are more important than family.
Bitter apologies? I'd rather you didn't.
What happened to my little sister?


(Sorry, I was reading about poetry earlier.)
She's not home right now.
I hate her, but I love her.
I want her to learn her lesson, but I want her home safe.
I want to kill her (figuratively), but I miss her.
She really doesn't know what she's doing to all of us. And if somehow she does, but she's doing it anyway, then I don't know whether I want her to come back.

I don't know if she still reads this thing, but eventually she might read this and she'll probably hate me for it, at least for a little while. But hey, she has no right. I have every right to hate her. I have every right to hate someone who makes my mother cry and think she's a bad mother and makes her worry whether her youngest daughter is still alive and where the hell she is. But I don't really hate her, she's my sister. I hate what she's doing, and I hate how she's changed, and I hate the things she's gone through, and I hate how naive and impressionable she is, but I don't hate her.