Y'all know my friend Kerry, right? If not, you should.
Besides being like a sister to me, and hella pretty, she's one of the most talented writers I've ever met.
She sent me this piece that she recently wrote and I had to share it with y'all (plus, I just finished this graphic work that seemed to complement it well).
My Loyal Friend
Not again. This can’t be happening again. It was only days, hours, minutes ago that I had just evaded the looming, ever present, always probing…
It’s okay, because, I forgot about it already. I’m running to the store, going to the gym, watching a TV show.
But not so fast..
In that store’s window reflection, displaying a distorted image of myself, all the parts I hate so desperately. Then there’s the glance down to watch my imperfect thighs sweat as I run, Never fast enough to truly get away. Or the lonely moment by the TV, eyes glazed over in a twisted relief that I feel numb, too numb to remember how it felt to be normal.
It’s there. Waiting. That’s it’s hunting ground.
It doesn’t need to scream or yell for my attention. It strangles. Slowly, surely, and inescapably it will wrap words, fears, even things I once found joy in, around my neck. Just tight enough so I can barely breathe. Tight enough that I am all too well acquainted with my mortality, friendly even. You see, death is a strange kind of friend. Death is the estranged brother of hope. He is lonely and wants you to be lonely with him, so lonely that you might want to join him. It’s sweet, really. He can’t live without me and I am alive without him.
But, it’s fine, because, I got that thing I wanted, felt happy today, and even laughed. Today was a good day. But, sometimes a good day doesn’t really matter though because it likes to play wingman for death. Introduce him again, bring him up, even convince me to flirt with him, again. Again. Death is always needy. Wants all of my attention, never wants me to leave, makes me promise I’m his forever. Even when I promise myself I’ll never promise him again. But, I can’t let him go. He’s been a good friend. Well, maybe not a good friend but a loyal one. He’s always there, just like it is.
It is the-
Doubt that I’ll ever be okay again and the
Ever present fear I am worthless and the
Pleading for someone to see me drowning but then the
Regret that I ever let someone see me so weak and the crippling desire to
Exit the room, the world, myself, my mind, because the
Shear idea of being found out as a fake is so
Shameful and secluding and it’s a pain
I am all too familiar with, even danced with
On a ballroom floor made of shards of glass
Not knowing whether to be shocked by the fact that I’m bleeding or that I don’t care that I am.
That. That, is who it is.
And it won’t leave me alone.
a prose piece by Kerry Smith.
check out her other work here.