A/N: The following is based on personal experience - with a few changes to make it fit Hermione's character. The poem is mine.
Disclaimer: I'm not JKRowling. If I was, I'd be rich, and not be struggling to do homework and earn money. Heck, I probably wouldn't be writing FanFiction because everything would be the way I wanted it to be in the books. But I'm not, nor am I anywhere near her as far as creativity and genius goes. Oh, and I'm not making any money off of this story. I own nothing but the plot and anything else you don't recognize.
Who am I? I don't think I even remember the real me. I have faces. I have acts. That's what my life has become. It's a show, and I play every part. To some, I'm the know-it-all, the goody-two-shoes, the prude. To others, I'm the confident, perfect person. To others, I'm the loyal friend. I'm a member of the Golden Trio. To some, I'm the prima donna. Some don't even know I exist. So who am I really? I don't know.
That is why, dear diary, I am writing this. I plan on using you as a vent for my thoughts and feelings. Maybe, one day, I'll figure out who I really am. Hopefully it will happen soon. I'm tired of my masks. I'm tired of people looking at me, and seeing who or what they want to see.
Maybe, one day, I'll find the courage to remove the layers. Until then, people can think they know me. Can think that they know my feelings, my thoughts, but they don't. No one does. Only you do my hidden diary.
Writing this down is opening old wounds. It is making me tear down these barriers that I've created and put around myself. These scars that I thought would fade over time are here. And they are throbbing with new pain.
The feelings inside,
Not the little hurts,
But the deep, dark,
Hidden ones.
The ones that are covered
By the many layers
Of pretense,
Of lies
That you tell yourself,
That you tell others.
Underneath the walls,
The shields of protection
That you've
Erected around yourself,
To prevent the wounds
From reopening,
And yet, they've
Actually never closed.
Way deep in there,
That is who you really are.
Those are what
Have shaped you
After all these years
Maybe one day, I'll find the courage to find who I am. Maybe I'll be brave enough to look inside me, look at my past, look at what's shaped me, and find the real me. It will take a while. My demons are what are inside me. I don't want to deal with them. I have hidden them away, and I am in no hurry to confront them. I don't know what I want. I'm scared to discover who I really am. To destroy the image that so many people have of me. I don't want to disappoint other people; I don't want to disappoint myself. I am trying to find myself, and yet I don't want to find myself as a person that I can't accept, as a person that I can't value.
I like my perfect images, the ones that I can choose to be. The characters that gain the most attention and command the most respect. The characters that allow me to be who I choose to be, the ones that offer no limitations. They allow me to act differently, speak differently, and hide the real me.
I have many different masks and personalities. I use them in different occasions. My dance studio thinks of me as the prima donna with the perfect life. My friends, Harry and Ron, think of me as 'Mione, the one that solves all their problems. Ginny thinks of me as her confidant. My peers think of me as a know-it-all, a member of the Golden Trio, a prude. Everyone has their own view of me, which is fine with me, as long as they never discover who I really am.
Once I find myself, I'll work harder to cover my true personality up. I don't want to deal with the pain and the memories looking inside myself brings. Digging through the layers of carefully placed lies, beyond that is my past. My hurting past. My scars still remain. I can feel them, and yet I'm not ready to be exposed, even to myself.
I refuse to experience the pain again. I won't subject myself to reliving all of my memories, just to discover the real me. At least not yet. I'm not ready. I enjoy hiding behind all my masks, shielding my real personality, covering it up under the fake looks, smiles, and acts. Maybe one day I'll find the real me, discover who I truly am. Until then, dear diary, you shall be my confidant.
The question still remains, who am I really? And when will I be willing to look?
A/N: Let me know what you think of this. Should I use it to create a longer story?