Some Days Are Harder Than Others
Prose by Ada J. Raven
TW: Images of death and dying
The things I don’t say will probably kill me one day…
But that’s why I write — to put that off as long as possible.
From the smallest of annoyances to the biggest of grievances, thoughts of things I should have said echo in my mind,
taking shelter in my subconscious and saving themselves for later.
What do I fear above all things? Being considered an idiot.
I work hard to inform myself, to keep myself in tune.
But I allow others who don’t work half as hard to shout over me.
I use the word “allow” because the moment they shout, I begin to question… myself, my comprehension, and my ability to see the truth.
Am I really that smart, or am I a naive little girl who overestimates herself?
When written, it sounds ridiculous. I know.
But you see, that little girl of whom I speak has never truly healed.
She limps into the room hoping desperately that she looks confident but knowing that she doesn’t
(and cursing herself for it).
And she knows the minute she stops moving, the vultures will come to roost.
Once they do, she cannot meet their eyes.
If she does she might trip, and they’ll feast on her flesh.
So she limps on, chin thrust defiantly forward but having no case to make.
