Shit.
I knew I'd fallen into something. But I thought love was supposed to be something nice. And this feels like drowning, suffocated by a crimson river. That's a stupid metaphor. I mean her hair. That blood-red hair, when she walks past me she leaves my fingers all pomegranate.
It's midnight so bring on the stars and let's drink by the lake and spew clichés to one another.
The next line says, if only. Except there's no point. If only what? If only she loved me? If only she didn't love him? Because she does love him. She can hide, but I know her secrets, I watch her, and I watch her when she's with him, when she's yelling and her cheeks turn pink and someone climbs into my mouth and starts ripping out my heart.
Rhetorical questions too. Shame writing melancholy love letters isn't a part of the Transfiguration syllabus.
When did I know? Today I discovered that this mess that I'm lying in isn't the mess of bed sheets and empty bottles, it's the mess of my heart, shredded and left in a pool of blood all around me on the floor. Is that what they call 'falling in love'?
If it is then I'm still slowly falling.
It never stops. The rain never stops, the pain never stops. The earth keeps turning and I keep wishing and she keeps loving someone who never suffered enough for her. Why is the measure of love loss? I never had but I'm still losing.
Stop.
Put on a face now. Brave face, whatever. It doesn't matter, just hide. Now, Narcissa, you play the gravedigger, you bury your emotions as they come, alive in their coffins, screaming, scratching, but you will hear them only if you listen.
And you will never listen.
A/N – I am considering making this the prologue to a longer piece, any comments would be most appreciated.
Love, Bee.