kelly sick

8

Choose life. Choose facebook, twitter, instagram and hope that someone, somewhere cares. Choose looking up old flames, wishing you’d done it all differently. And choose watching history repeat itself. Choose your future. Choose reality TV, slutshaming, revenge porn. Choose a zero hour contract, a two hour journey to work, and choose the same for your kids, only worse. And smother the pain with an unknown dose of an unknown drug made in somebody’s kitchen and then… 

take a deep breath. 

You’re an addict. So be addicted. Just be addicted to something else. Choose the ones you love, choose your future, choose life. 

T2: Trainspotting

3

I visited my Pop-Pop in a rehabilitation center and he allowed me to take his portrait. He hasn’t been home in 3 months after he simply sat down one night and couldn’t get back on his feet. He’s been struggling with his lungs and heart, and we thought we were going to lose him a few days after he was hospitalized. He’s fighting for our sake; his body may be failing him but he’s never lost his edge, and demanded that grilled cheese he’s proudly holding in the second image to replace the egg salad the hospital gave him as part of the strict diet they have him on. He also checked himself out of this rehab center yesterday morning although he can barely walk, let alone drive, because he was sick of not being home with his family. Every time I see him he holds my hand and looks me in the eye and tells me to remember my worth and to never settle. It’s an honor to be his granddaughter.

by kelly smith

Choose life.
Choose a job.
Choose a career.
Choose a family,
Choose a fucking big television
Choose washing machines, cars,
Compact disc players, and electrical tin openers.
Choose good health, low cholesterol
And dental insurance.
Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments.
Choose a starter home.
Choose your friends.
Choose leisure wear and matching luggage.
Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase
In a range of fucking fabrics.
Choose DIY and wondering who you
Are on a Sunday morning.
Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing
Sprit-crushing ga me shows
Stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth.
Choose rotting away at the end of it all,
Pishing you last in a miserable home
Nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish,
Fucked-up brats
You have spawned to replace yourself.
Choose your future. Choose life.