Perfect

I suppose I'm insane now. I suppose I'm looking at everyone and I see myself as a twisted thing. I'm not even a person anymore.

God I hate this life.

People don't get it, they don't see. When they see me, they see the "Slytherin Prince", they see this perfect, yet twisted piece of perfection. They see someone who is perfect in their eyes because he's so bad.

But they don't get it.

They don't hear the screaming, the shouting, the pleading for it to stop.

They don't see the bruises, the bleeding, the family that falls apart.

They don't feel the terror that grips me till I choke, the anger that destroys myself, the pressure suffocating me till I can't breathe

They don't taste the tension when it happens again and again and again, the horror that makes me so sick I can't live but can't die, the fear that fills so completely when they start.

They don't smell the stench of evil that makes me want to vomit till I'm dead, the smell of blood that will never leave me no matter what till I die, the wafting bile and puke from the ones my father locks up and are released only when dead.

They're not the ones who feel like their heart will stop at the slightest allusion to their future. They're not the ones who have to be perfect; always perfect and never normal. They're not the ones who scream and scream but can't be heard till their dead. They're not the ones who can't really live until they die. They're not the ones who aren't allowed to die.

I want to die.

I want to die but can't.

I want to die because I have to be perfect.

I'm not.

I'm too flawed to be perfect.

I'm too lazy to work as hard as I can to get the perfect grades.

I'm too nasty to be the philanthropist I'm supposed to appear as in public.

I'm too selfish to be able to serve the Dark Lord when he comes again.

I'm too disgusting to be as physically perfect as I need to be.

I'm too immature to be serious beyond measure as needed when in public.

I'm too cowardly to release myself the only way I can.

I try to convince myself that the only reason I don't commit suicide is that I don't have a way. A way to ensure my father won't ever come and get me to put me in some shell locked up until he lets me out. He can bring me back from the dead. He wouldn't be my father if he couldn't. So that's why I don't die.

That's what I try to convince myself of.

But it's not true.

I don't die because I'm scared.

I don't kill myself because I don't want to hurt.

I don't want to hurt because I'm a coward.

I'm a coward because I'm flawed.

I'm too wrong to be right.

I try and try and try and try to be perfect.

I try and try and try and try to work hard.

I try and try and try and try to be nice.

I try and try and try and try to be beautiful.

I try and try and try and try.

But it's never enough.

I'm never good enough.

I'm never hard-working enough.

I'm never nice enough.

I'm never beautiful enough.

I'm never enough.

I'm never enough and I hate it.

I hate that I'm not perfect.

But I can't help it.

God I hate this life.

I really am insane now. I really am twisted.

But I won't change it. Because I am myself.

And I'll stay that way, whether I want to or not.

For in the end, you can only remain as yourself, and nothing else.

I can try to be someone else:

I can try to be the Mudblood Bookworm.

I can try to be the bloody Boy-Who-Lived.

I can try to be the redheaded Weasel.

I can try, but that's all I can do.

I can try to be all brains and nothing else.

I can try to be popular and nothing else.

I can try to be a hero and nothing else.

I can try to be loyal to a fault and nothing else.

I can try, but that's never going to be who I am.

I will be myself.

I will be mean

I will be nasty

I will be ugly

I will be wild

I will be stupid

I will be socially unacceptable

I will be a turncoat

I will be disgusting

I will be the only thing I can be

I will be myself.