You're 19 and a half. You've always been there, you're just farther away then I want you to be. You're strong, and you can be just a phone call away, but the thousands of miles can rip me apart. Things are hard right now for you, but don't turn your back on the rest of the world just because of the skeletons chasing you. I'll always be here, just call out my name, baby girl.
You're 20 now, and you're posting barely-covered pictures of yourself on face book. you're going half-naked to raves, probably talking yourself up about how you don't do drugs, but sweetie, your boy-toy is going to start taking them, then you will, or your brother, then sooner or later you'll be a regular with all of the 16 year-old girls. Your relationships will fall to pieces, your friends will become even more few and far-between, and you'll blame everybody but yourself. I guess some things never change.
You're 21, girl, and you're one of the most mature people I hang around. You're smart, fun, and strong. You've been through a lot, we have shared some moments together, and we get each other. Your wittiness makes me roll over laughing, you kick my butt with the stories you tell me, and I always come back to hear more. We're still getting to know each other, but with you this close to me, I feel invincible. You're beautiful, and no one could ever change that.
You're 22 now. You're trying your hardest to ruin friendships, make enemies and diving into your alcoholic beverages like they're a swimming pool or a bible. Nothing you do can save you, every day you're slowly falling down a steep hill, hitting every ugly rock on the way down. You're disgusting from the inside out, every one looks down at you. You call yourself mature, when you act like a bitch that's heading the junior high cheer squad. You go out of your way to ruin people's days when you think they're "below" you. You're in the deepest, ugliest pit you could ever fall in. There is no coming out.