Another showerhead and some more pretty eyes.
I ask how can she formulate her own beauty if she exclaims from the inside? 
She's proved by her own outline and I say, I swear she's confident it's the best outline she's ever seen.
The blur must glow an undefined message that she can only acknowledge as you wish you had this, 
Or I wish you weren't mine.

She's got trust issues and that feather in her throat strokes a mean rhythm,  she's not my friend, she's my sister and she can't read the words.
You were good at maths, advanced to the methods class. So I ask you know, why are so you basic with your shallow manipulation? I'd admire you if you insulted me as I was turning around but you avoid to even begin to ignore my glow, my blur and my outline that was made and stated identically to yours; at the same time.

Regards to below
Ill say I'm never going to admit to an end, and I probably won't but months and days and weeks and weekends and days off school and family holidays and family dinners have tailed past since mid year.
I've thought of possible angles I could've seen or should see now parallel to the weight. I've endured the cliche bath tub *relax, reflect and cry by candlelight and some jazz music so I could scoff down a taste of a different companionship.
I don't want to say it and I forbid to forbid myself from restricting any enrichment. I talk poor and playfully foregoing my prestige that stretches a muscle of religion somewhere in me.
I'm progressing into a clarified metaphor of any cinematic qualms I'm holding onto hesistate and say it's from you. 

These days and ambitions born merely from mostly scandalous. And somewhat dishonour.
Fuck you

Finally scrapped that shit forming a wall between the sweet scratching of metal and tonal defeaning so cosy its almost comforting.
I found my knees about 13 inches above each foot.
Dark coloured carpet to hide the stains and a shiny fuckin showerhead to admire your own pretty fuckin eyes.
I ended up dancing alone whilst you were bare backed and confident to be showering in the dark, door's wide open; practically in my company.
I say, old rock and roll music is much nicer to be carried by you're lonesome self.
This could be trust issues, or just your sister's home made bitchy fuckin attitude.
So you can stay over there with your sexy self, standing in the rain with your very pretty eyes and I'll sit over there- frankly opinionated and wearing leggings again.

You know the moment when you turn to see your sister staring at her own reflection in the shower head. You wonder why when she's showering in the dark and the song your listening to provokes an unsettling urge of a head turn back to your heart ache and where you're from.
You keep me hanging on

Bloody, stupid I don't even know what to call it. Is it a style? Or merely a skill? What's the purpose of skipping words to make sense of something great and describably personal?

I probably won't even be able comprehend of what I meant but at least I'll be happy my sentences are words making up pretty.

Childish ideas a fifteen year old once moralised to forget the contents of my bedroom in trust they'd forget theirs. Too many romance movies and ambition to satisfy the dreamy.
Now
A lonely count between the hours of seconds asserting the confidence it will happen. And I won't be waitinf much longer, it's just around the corner; my first dream is near it's end and my exploration is beginning to expand beyond myself,  and hopefully onto you: whoever you are, and then I close the fable persisting in denial for something of my own I can write about.

I still suffer the knot weighing down my eyelids. I am the patient to my patience, holding as I'm wishing. Dazing to meet the folds of the stereo. Dreamt with spread legs, we wish for a company's fence to wire a safety so it's flush.

Her words split from her contextual intent of sentiment. Sitting as a platter of her age-
she's static. a contrast, regrown to separate; she's got bad habits.
She's proud of her literacy and literally she can't seem to find the commonality between all that her words tell me. her belief of a dramatic final is written because she's over it, there's no more of it.she manipulates conclusively, now an eventuality thats made exclusively to her naivety, shes won the battle, shes written her dark words of pain and the drugs, what shes lost and all that which strains her to unfold and redirect the focus of her motor. 
She's at the seams and her words a vague conjunction and now she can only see a repetitive fight of the emotional process.
Avoids dressing her bed because where its bare comforts her. Shes a gap to the silk stitching of her mattress.
Her thanks disguises on her self political

Again the missing part of my brain won't expel it's analogical objective to it's subjective.

I'm trying to describe the glare of my tv and how it's an nuisance to the warmth of my bedroom BUT I am stricken by the reminder of my bloody flaw of scenic literacy and where it comes from, or where it doesn't come from.