My friendships are one sided.
She's hungry, here, have the rest of my lunch. "I don't need it," I say, loudly enough to cover up the snarling from my stomach.
She's tired. I wake up to soothe her and tell her things are okay, and to comfort her until she can rest, smiling widely enough to hide the bags under my eyes.
"I'm upset, anxious, depressed," she whispers, and I'm there in a flash, pulling down my sleeves to hide the trails on my arms and to act as a cloth to wipe her tears, and to tell her she's pretty, and sweet, and good. All I'm wishing is for her to someday return those words.
But we're good friends, I swear. She's just having a rough patch. We're good friends, because good friends are there for each other, and have each other's backs. It's okay that she glares, and it's okay that she's disinterested in what I have to say, because she has it worse than I do, and I understand. I just don't understand how I can stand for her every choice, and she still walks by, standing tall enough to nudge my wilted frame to the ground with the lightest tap her her shoulder on mine.
What am I doing wrong, because we're friends. She is my friend, and I... am hers?
YOU ARE READING
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RandomEntries from my free-write notebook. Mostly musings, periodic poetry, rarely real events. An escape from the real world, a door to my head.
