Wolfpack Press

My Losers

Kwantayvia Williams

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They sat alone like losers, and I peacefully joined them because, after all, losers were my people, the only people for me. The silent ones, silently passing by, silently listening, silently studying their surroundings, aware of every shift in movement, the ones who never ask for help but deal with it, deal with it, and deal with it some more until their hearts burst because they can’t deal with it anymore. So they cry, and cry, and cry alone like orphaned babies.

Marcus was the most underrated personality. He was capable of smiling when, deep down, his heart wasn’t happy, and he’d cry underneath his mask of delightfulness, laugh on the outside as if he was having a good time, break down when no one was looking, wipe his tears, bottle up the rest of his emotions that didn’t flow from his eyes, lie through his teeth when someone asked if he was ok, and then he’d walk away from his hiding place as if nothing happened. You see, the people for me are the misunderstood and strong because they are misunderstood.

All of the rest of my friends were careless beings: Lauren the Loud and Obnoxious who yelled through the halls of the school bright and early each morning, Olivia the Annoying who yapped and yapped, Veronica the Saint who could do no wrong, and Everest the Ratchet Partier who spent most of her weekends at the local teen club; all were far from losers and far from me.

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My Losers