I’ve been avoiding to write, worrying that you’ll judge me, too. You’ve been observing me from my desk.
I stare at you for a moment then hop on my laptop to surf the net or IM my friends. Once I grow bored, I stare at you and sluggishly shuffle my feet out of my room to grab something out of the fridge. I return and glare at you, compelling me to flip the pages of a magazine or book to keep my mind occupied.
But yet, you’re always there staring back at me.
I figured that you’re not going to label me like the others, remark on what I wear, or murmur that I cover my arms most times just to hide wounds of slitting my wrists; nothing but rumors.
You’re actually different.
You’re truth, you’re one of my friends. You listen and respect me like a genuine pal. You’re bout like my stuffed elephant Jazzy that I’ve had since I was 5 years old. The only difference is that you’re not squishy and soft like him.
Elizabeth “Raven” Jameson