Inspired by Bon Iver's 'Skinny Love'.

I own neither the song nor the works of J.K Rowling.


She wasn't sure exactly when it began.

When she resolved to make the first laceration into her blissful, virgin ignorance.

Sure, she could tell you that salt water was laced with electricity should it touch thin, gaping wounds and that long sleeves in July are hard to justify.

And she could tell you that she knew the fickle box, waiting clandestine under her splintered floorboards, wasn't the answer.

But she would also tell you that she couldn't remember the question until it was blooming out of her in rubicund gasps of pain and heat.

She could tell you that music was a cruel, love barren art and that looking for substance between the deserted intonations was a hollow endeavour.

She could tell you that your incessant chattering drowns her, each nonsensical sentence another lead weight strung to her sinking body.

And that she doesn't know what it feels like to pull above the glass surface anymore.

She could tell you that she stands at the threshold of the Astronomy Tower to feel the inevitable fatality course within her veins.

She could tell you that she is suspended to this reality by a single gossamer strand and that your God forsook her long ago.

She could tell you that she was lonely, in a way that knew no solace but to be alone.

Luna could tell you that.

If you asked.

~Fin~