I like my skin. It has always been like this. White and pale. I can see my veins through the skin. They shine. It's almost like looking through glass.
I do not hate summers as much as people might think I do. But I hate it what summer does to my skin. I wear long sleeves. I avoid sunlight. But it only takes a moment, five minutes from the sun to burn my face. It turns red. Aches.
My hands don't turn red as easily as my face. I wear gloves often, but sometimes the heat is just too much. After every summer my hands are a bit more brown and darker than they used to be.
I like March. Around then my hands are normal again. I spend hours watching my fingers, touching silky fabrics, black, green, night blue. White looks so divine with them. Every night before I fell asleep I lift my hands above my head and make shadow play. But I do not care about the shadows. I can't rip my eyes off my skin.
When I sit in the class, I always put my hands on the table. I guess I could have better marks without my hands.
I cannot stand people touching me. Their hands are dirty and they leave tiny black dust pieces on my skin. I wash myself every day.
I hate scars. They break the perfection. I used to scratch my stomach while I slept. But I have learned to sleep on my back and hands on the covers. That makes me sleep restlessly but it saves my skin.
The only thing you have said to me during this week was in Quidditch field. I stumbled into a puddle of mud. And while I was trembling and did not know how to ever clean myself of that filty stuff I heard you shouting.
"Look, Malfoy's finally looking bearable."
I do not hate summers as much as people might think I do. But I hate it what summer does to my skin. I wear long sleeves. I avoid sunlight. But it only takes a moment, five minutes from the sun to burn my face. It turns red. Aches.
My hands don't turn red as easily as my face. I wear gloves often, but sometimes the heat is just too much. After every summer my hands are a bit more brown and darker than they used to be.
I like March. Around then my hands are normal again. I spend hours watching my fingers, touching silky fabrics, black, green, night blue. White looks so divine with them. Every night before I fell asleep I lift my hands above my head and make shadow play. But I do not care about the shadows. I can't rip my eyes off my skin.
When I sit in the class, I always put my hands on the table. I guess I could have better marks without my hands.
I cannot stand people touching me. Their hands are dirty and they leave tiny black dust pieces on my skin. I wash myself every day.
I hate scars. They break the perfection. I used to scratch my stomach while I slept. But I have learned to sleep on my back and hands on the covers. That makes me sleep restlessly but it saves my skin.
The only thing you have said to me during this week was in Quidditch field. I stumbled into a puddle of mud. And while I was trembling and did not know how to ever clean myself of that filty stuff I heard you shouting.
"Look, Malfoy's finally looking bearable."
