You're not her type you say.

And yet if I were to sum her, 'type,' up you would be it.

You're on point baby boy.

You've become obsessed to become her elusive 'type'.

And I only wish to say that I'm exaggerating when I say 'obsessed'.

But you are.

You've lost so much weight, to the point that you can even wear my 

loose sweaters comfortably even though I'm five feet tall. 105 pounds.

The things that you merely boast about have become about material 

things.

Losing weight to you now is like a trophy. Your eyes light up when you see that you've lost weight and you've been looking sickly. You control your calorie intake and it's lower than it should be for someone who exercises. You said once that you'd love to be my weight... but you're 5'8. 

I love you like a older sister loves their baby brother... but you're scaring me. I don't really know if you understand where I'm coming from.

I hope you're free on sunday so we can hang out again. I wanna tell you how being sick seemed the best way to be skinny for  me at one point.