I feel like I'm about half an inch away from something that vaguely resembles a breakdown. It's a long story, suffice to say Moony has it easy. Unfortunately for him and Sirius when I'm having a rough time, they are abused most horrifically in the name of therapy.


Words come to me so easily. I can pick up a quill and write away my sadness; turn my unshed tears and unwanted pain into something beautiful. I can turn heartbreak into something you understand and take note of; because unless it is beautiful, and elegant and poetic you wouldn't dare look at it. You wouldn't dare to acknowledge that I am teetering on the edge,so very close to coming undone.

Today words don't come. Today there are half shaped thoughts and mismatched syllables chasing their tails, and I can't make them stop. I can't make them shut up their screaming; your name, over and over, echoing and reverberating. I've spent hours raking over the same ground, tearing through memories; I can't even tell one emotion from the other anymore. There was sadness once, and fear somewhere. Now it's a mess, a blur; one unwelcome emotion running into the next. Except for one, settled in the very pit of my stomach- I think we call it guilt. Guilt because I can't bear to see you happy. Guilt because I want you to hurt, I want you to break, just so I can be the one to fix you, piece by piece.

I think I've forgotten how it feels to not use every spare ounce of energy to keep up a happy facade, to give you a real smile, or to laugh without wincing. When did my laugh become so hollow? When you look at me, properly, sometimes I think you know. I think you know what this is, and what it's doing to me. But you give me an equally fake smile, and we both carry on pretending. Because that's how we do things, isn't it? Both too shy and stubborn to do anything about it, so we let it pass us by.

"How do you do it, Moons?" James asked one day, laying a cold hand on my shoulder. You were sat opposite, with her sprawled across your lap, pale, delicate arms draped around your shoulders. She was absolutely beautiful – and so very repulsive. She had the perfect figure; all jutting hipbones and piano key ribs, perfect for you to play on. She had the voice of an angel, a chiming laugh and endearing inflection – like said angel drawing her perfect nails down a chalk board. And the worst thing? You looked at her as though you saw her faults, every single one, and accepted them. You looked at her as though you understood her. As though you loved her.

The easiest thing to do, the most selfish thing, would be to tell you. I could lean across, right now, knock away a stray strand of ebony hair and whisper so, so quietly into your ear. Or I could scream it; scream it at the top of constricted lungs, scream my broken heart out.

Ah, but then she says something, and I see your smile – the real one, the one you never give me anymore. The one that brings a spark of warmth to your eyes and seems to light up a room. How could I destroy that? So I sit back, and forget I ever wanted to let such a terrible secret see the light of day.

'How do you do it, Moons?'

'It's called sacrifice. One day, you'll have to do it. And it will kill you'.

This is a shambles, written under the heavy influence of 'The Ark's music – specifically 'Let your body decide' and 'Tell me this night is over'. I'd strongly suggest having a little listen ;)

For anyone who has had the misfortune of ever reading some of my stuff in the past, and is starting to feel suicidal, fear not; there is a happy piece nearing completion – so keep an eye out for that.

For now, thank you for reading, and I hope you all have a lovely day.