Do they know?

Do the other teenagers know? Do they know whats going on? Why do they stare? Why do they question? How come they pretend to care and say hello when really all they want to do is- ignore you. Am I really all that plain? Am I really all that boring? Am I really that easy to read? Are the words Depression and Anxiety written all over me? 

I pop them in my mouth, little do they know I pop 15 pills a day. The other teenagers see at lunch, they see how I unzip my backpack and slip my fingers inside the smallest pouch and pull out a weekly small case labeled Wednesday or whatever day of the week it is.

I see her words forming in her head before she even speaks the words. I see her darkened damaged eyes, the eyes of a vicious dying lion. The words come out and wrap around your throat like a Python. And yet she’s the one who’s gasping for air, holding onto the last few strands of hope she’ll ever have. 

She thinks she’s dangerous, she thinks she’s something special. Oh right something special, rather something crucially important to the existence of mental bullets and mental guns and swords that make their way across the battlefield to pierce your soul.

Bang. Click. Bang.

She aimed and shot at me, click oh click and she’s reloaded. one more bang and out flies my soul. I won’t stand for this, I won’t watch her shoot me down. If anyone’s going to shoot someone down, I’ll be the one to shoot her down.

Smile. wave. Sit right down.

I walk inside that class of words and look directly into those eyes of hers, those eyes of hatred. But I don’t glare, I don’t get angry. I smile. And then I wave straight past her and wave at the person who’s under those closed off walls. And then I sit right down and zip my binder open and then to the very last section. 

And the bullets drop. Or I hope they do. She hasn’t changed. I don’t expect her to. But I’ll smile right on through and watch her pain. Because what she did to me, is unacceptable. 


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