Bitch

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I see a bit of you ... in the flick of hair, in the highlights, the color. The way it curls out at the ends.

I catch myself when I say 'bye' on the phone ... I hear your voice in mine ... in some ways ... your thoughts too.

Dark manicures in the winter. Burgundy or Wine. French in the summer.

"My mother told me off for not coloring my hair for such a long time. She says it makes me look older."

The shoes.

The black shirt from Splash. Too bad they didn't have it in white. Five years later, it still looks good.

The yellow pashmina.

The cigarette smoke.

I thought I hated you. I did hate you. Now I know why. I hated you because I wanted to be just like you.

And in many ways, I now am.

You wouldn't know it if you saw me. Hell, you wouldn't even know it was you I am talking about if you read this.

But I really am you.

I wish I could tell you this, because I think we could be great friends, but I met you a few months ago and I still thought you were a Total Bitch.

So no changes there.

I still hate you.

I don't think I'll ever stop.

Because everytime I turn around, you do something so wonderful that I hate you because I want to be just like you ... and then I catch up a little while later.

The problem is, everytime I become you, you seem to have moved on. Will I ever stop hating you?

I don't think I will.

And I like it that way.

Bitch.