The Transparent Shoal
Do you want to think about a fantasy, think about drifting off, think about ignorance and bliss. This is what Draco wants, through the days, through the weeks, sitting through classes and swimming through reality.
You know that he's been having thoughts, he's been looking out of windows night and day. You know he's been glowing with little thrills like the flashing sides of silver fish in a shoal, and underneath them a warm current flowing in cadences of music, in curling streams of smoke and in clarity of images.
Do you know, did you hear it, did the wind lisp it to you some day, or did a night-crawling toad tell you on the street, that Draco loved another? That Draco and his cold heart pumped and burned just like nature intended, that Draco with his white face and his black soul did the mortal thing too, he did the unrequited love thing, he did that shit, he did the whole shebang.
But god, he'd say now, what a lark, what a gas. Draco depends on Draco. Fuck the people.
Today he woke up like usual. He ate breakfast, he went to his first lesson. Here, look at him. His schoolwork is in order. His appearance is neat, his robes and hair are clean. The skin on his arms and legs is pale and uniform. Oh how transparent you are Draco, like a little dead raw fish, like a little glass noodle.
Do you remember when he looked different? He remembers when his skin blossomed with flowers in the winter, blue and purple, green and yellow. He smiles when he sees thin pink scar lines like grim sealed lips. You weren't so good to eat then, Draco, you were all clouded up and dark like a patch of squid ink or city-sidewalk snow.
But that's over now, replaced by a strange life of medium tones, week that follows week, lined up like rows of files in a filing cabinet.
And when he looks to the side, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the flashing sides of those fish in the silver shoal, and he feels the warm current they swim in. He thinks of tree leaves, blue skies at night, yellow planets far away, slowly waving tentacles and imaginary beings.
What will he come to? What will he do?
Do you want to think about a fantasy, think about drifting off, think about ignorance and bliss. This is what Draco wants, through the days, through the weeks, sitting through classes and swimming through reality.
You know that he's been having thoughts, he's been looking out of windows night and day. You know he's been glowing with little thrills like the flashing sides of silver fish in a shoal, and underneath them a warm current flowing in cadences of music, in curling streams of smoke and in clarity of images.
Do you know, did you hear it, did the wind lisp it to you some day, or did a night-crawling toad tell you on the street, that Draco loved another? That Draco and his cold heart pumped and burned just like nature intended, that Draco with his white face and his black soul did the mortal thing too, he did the unrequited love thing, he did that shit, he did the whole shebang.
But god, he'd say now, what a lark, what a gas. Draco depends on Draco. Fuck the people.
Today he woke up like usual. He ate breakfast, he went to his first lesson. Here, look at him. His schoolwork is in order. His appearance is neat, his robes and hair are clean. The skin on his arms and legs is pale and uniform. Oh how transparent you are Draco, like a little dead raw fish, like a little glass noodle.
Do you remember when he looked different? He remembers when his skin blossomed with flowers in the winter, blue and purple, green and yellow. He smiles when he sees thin pink scar lines like grim sealed lips. You weren't so good to eat then, Draco, you were all clouded up and dark like a patch of squid ink or city-sidewalk snow.
But that's over now, replaced by a strange life of medium tones, week that follows week, lined up like rows of files in a filing cabinet.
And when he looks to the side, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the flashing sides of those fish in the silver shoal, and he feels the warm current they swim in. He thinks of tree leaves, blue skies at night, yellow planets far away, slowly waving tentacles and imaginary beings.
What will he come to? What will he do?