The girl in the flamingo pink feather boa – aka 'Social Media'

On our complicated friendships with social media.

Social media came trampling in with her glitzy glamour and flamingo pink feather boa. Drinking red bull, fizzled and frazzled by the flashy speed of internet connectivity. She knows everything, knows everyone, and knows that neon colours always equal applause. Like a rebellious daughter, she likes to shock – some bitchy sideways comment, some blistered political comment, all caps shouting from the rooftop. Social media talks in attention. Imagine a pool party; social media's on the roof with a red megaphone and bedazzled nipples. And oh she's wonderful, and oh she's fun and even if your mother hates her, and even if, sometimes, she makes you feel like complete shit – you'll stay friends with her.

Invite her over and soon her quick rush has taken over your entire bedroom. Often it's a whirlwind of surprise, thrill and that particular brightness of party girls. But most of the time she makes you feel anxious. If she's gone, you think about her. Wondering what glamorous things she's up to. Platform heels beachside. Confetti colours strewn across a 25th birthday cake. Glazed donut faces beaming back at life in glow. When you're with her you wonder why. You never feel good, not really. Sitting on the cold bathtub, wiping cornflower blue across your eyelids because she told you it's the hottest thing right now, you think about breaking up with her. You don't. Electric delight trails her. Where do you think you'll find it without her?

The blue eyeshadow looks like trash. On her it never does. In the times you're not under the spell of her glitchy beauty, you really think you hate her. Her name on your phone makes you recoil. Lit up light blue making your heart twitch. She's the fucking worst, you think to yourself. But you know you're being unfair. As much as she makes you hate her, you also love her. Love, hate, bewitchment; all interchangeable at this point.

Once, she told you about a book that felt like recognition. That book is still your favourite. Dog-eared with abandon. Underlined. Loved. On times you feel unseen, she reaches right into your weepy heart and blows life back into it. The people that love you the most don't know you like she does. Lounging on plastic chairs over the summer, you told each other your deepest desires. Swapped poetry. Said I thought I was the only one 10 times in 5 hours. Because of her you've met people you would never have met. She offers up lovers, romance, knowledge and cupped handfuls of connection. Big human things given like friendship bracelets or shared mini-skirts. This gaudy, flashy thing can be sweet, sensitive, and pull you into such a surprising depth you haven't found anywhere else. Both glitzy and broken, bright and cruel, shallow and unfathomable – her existence is so confusing, so emotionally charged, she feels absurd.

If you're being honest with yourself, you loved her long before you hated her. Growing up together, she saw you break, snap, come back together. The punk phase, she was there. Starving yourself to Tumblr idealisation, she was all in. Leaving home, falling in love, seeing all your youth rot – she was there. As life fades and brightens simultaneously, as time does what time does – stripping people, loves and chapters from your life, she’s there. In her bright pink accessories with her bright pink passion, always on, always willing; she is right there with you.

That girl in the flamingo pink feather boa loves you and ruins you. Lovers say just leave her; they're sick of listening to you complain. They hate seeing your misery. Friends nod in understanding: we want to leave her too. And you all promise you'll have enough in each other but it feels empty without her. Her presence pushes you all together. Despite the pain, the joy persists.

How can you hate and love someone with such intensity for so many years? The bruises have just faded from one of her jabs but she's sent you a big bunch of fire flame emojis and yellow daisies straight to your door. Your parents say what do you again? But social media? – she wraps her boa around you and swoons into your ear, you've changed my life. Says I would die at your feet. Wrapped in her pink embrace, you forget pain. Clouded by her feathery happiness, you forget reality. In this moment, you're just happy that she loves you. Her wet lip balm kisses stick to your face while the sting is still stuck in your foot from some cruel remark she made last week. She'd call it toxic. It's all the rage now. You consider the toxicity. Consider if it's worth it. Maybe even half-plan the escape as you blush your nose in the late afternoon mirror, just like she taught you. That's it, it's done, you're leaving this time.

It's 4pm on a Friday, and before you go, you decide to Facetime her. One last time. In a tiny rectangle screen she gasps at your bleach blonde shag haircut. She exclaims what the fuck why are you so beautiful. In a second you've forgotten all of her bad traits. Her glittery hell. Instead, you cave. Blushing under your false blush. Listening to her gasp about how hot you are. Deciding to believe it. And just like that you continue your decade long relationship with a girl you can never keep up with. Perpetually seduced by her fast days, sparkly nipples, and manic emotional chaos.

Forever strung along, by the girl in the flamingo pink feather boa.