"Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood." I didn't. I don't. It's scary and painful and full of heart-break. It's the rollercoaster that never ends—and I'd much rather be on the teacups. Instead of tripping over my shoelaces I'm slipping in the puddles of my friend's and family's blood. But those puddles aren't golden, oh no, and there's too much spilt. Are you okay?
I don't just skin my knee now and neither do you. We break our legs and don't shed a single tear. There's no music, no ACDC, but plenty of harmonizing screams. I'll be the baritone to your faithful alto. We'll hit all the right notes, I'm sure.
And everything's so blue now. Not just cookies and cakes and the coke I love so much, but your face and my arms and the places your fingers left prints in my skin from gripping my wrist too hard. You apologize, but I don't care, just please don't let go.
Because suddenly we're slipping, we're falling, are we dead? No. Not yet. But we should be.
Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood.
I don't own anything but these fingers. [thumbs up]