I'm not a good person.
I'm not normal.
I know that as fact.
Why, you ask? Do you think I'm just a sociopath for the sake of this... story? Poem, or whatever it is?
Well, you're wrong, I think.
The thing is that I have a childhood friend. Cliché, right?
Her name is Amber. Amber Blaine. Her very presence feels like warm honey and late-fall dandelions. She has hair the color of whipped creme, and eyes of normal, old boring hazelnuts.
I fall into those boring eyes every time I see them. I could pine about her *forever*. She's just... the perfect girl. Warm, clumsy, and starting to fall a little behind in her homeschooling.
The day feels like a void until I come to the flower shop after school. Only around her I act... normal. Like a normal girl. With normal amounts of sarcasm, and normal amounts of sass.
I'm an empty shell without her.
I'm constantly conflicted, because I want her to be happy, but I want to eviscerate anyone who puts their hands on her.
For the time being, I've settled on being kind to her friends, and making a good image of myself in her mind. I doubt I'll ever go kill-for-who-you-love on her, but...
My name is Madelyn. I'm in love with a girl named Amber Blaine. I want to grow old with her, and never ever part from her. Conjoined at the hip. That's what I want.
And... to be frank.
If she wanted me to kill someone, I would do it without hesitation.
God, here I go again. Pretending I'm in a dramatic... drama.
Why can't I just make good and *original* self made plots about my life? Then again, it's not like anyone's reading the words I think of. I think of the past like this.