She tells
me she’s depressed.
She says life is a waste of time.
She says life is a waste of time.
She cries to me with tears in her eyes about the injustice of it all.
She talks about her Struggle
Her Fight
Her… Demon.
The one that has no horns
No tail
And is not red.
He’s fly… with that effect.
You know, the one that gets you high?
Not the I-seriously-can’t-see-anything-clearly high,
More like the
Oh-my-goodness-I-never-thought-I-could-see-such-beauty-without-my-eyes high.
He’s not the If-at-first-you-don’t-succeed-brush-yourself-off-and-try-again
type of guy.
More like the
I’m-so-damn-smooth-and-I-know-you-know-it-so-why-pretend-you-don’t-love-it-ma?
type.
Lauryn’s Mr. Intentional
The sweet-talking, confident-walking, not-into-stalking UNLESS he’s on the
receiving end guy.
That
devil-on-your-shoulder-with-that-deep-voice-to-die-for-telling-you-to-just-eat-that-chocolate-only-just-after-you’ve-resolve-to-lose-those-hips
Then-complain-about-your-‘60-kg-ass’-when-you-tell-him-you-can’t-fit-into-that-little-dress-he-likes-when-he-asks-why-you-aren’t-wearing-it.
That demon.
She says she’s depressed and doesn’t know why.
She tells me she’s possessed
By a demon
That knows nothing and at the same time everything about her.
A demon
So small it could pass unnoticed if you didn’t know it existed
But large enough to block out the sunlight filtering through the windows to her
soul.
She tells me she’s cold inside
But that she’s got the hots for the Demon.
She says she thinks the Demon is taking over her brain,
Making her one of those cannot-be-seen-dead-in-one-of-those-sweaters ladies
Or worse still, she says, one of those
my-tiny-tiny-clothes-just-happen-to-have-a-higher-IQ-than-my-even-more-mini-brain
type women.
She says she doesn’t like it.
She tells me she wants the Demon exorcised
And says she’s heard about a good priest
That doesn’t charge too much for that kind of thing, you know?
Problem is;
Apparently her Demon goes to church.
She tells me she’s depressed
And I tell her to shut it.
Joy Muthure
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