Why do you pretend to know me so well? It frustrates me. 

Maybe partly because I know you're right, you're always right. 

You call it envy? Why do you assume? You call it one thing, how do

 you know it isn't another? It could be anything for all you know. 

How do you know I'm not sitting here quietly mocking you 

at this very second? It doesn't mean I wish I was in your shoes. 

Your shoes are probably a few sizes too big anyways. 

I am not a book to be studied or a magazine for you to casually 

flip through the pages. Yet for some reason you find me so easy to read. 

My thoughts are not stamped across my forehead. The real me is 

tucked neatly inside, waiting patiently to be found.