Words
These words have been
trapped inside my throat,
They are hurtful and harsh, it's
true.
Yet now I shall speak them, by you provoked,
Devoid of
compassion and rue.
See, I've grown up, angry and
neglected,
Of your motherly affections deprived
You seem to
think that I mustn't be respected,
That our relationship cannot
be revived.
It's hard to believe that to you I am kin,
And
that of your womb I have sprung.
I do not think I could ever
begin
To name all the insults that roll off your tongue.
A
disgrace to the family? Defected and dumb?
Like salt in a wound
your words sting.
Mother I know not what I have done,
Other
than brave, honest things.
How could you honor these works of
spite,
Dear mother with whom I am plagued?
Or worship a Dark
Lord without contrite,
Whose intentions are thoughtless and
vague?
When nighttime arrives and darkness unfolds,
The
safety of sleep evades me.
I am flooded with many memories of
old,
Of a time when I was not angry.
"Good night, and I
love you," you whispered into my ear,
Gentle hands tucking my
bed sheets close.
Your words would erase all my worries and
fears,
Of boggarts, monsters and ghosts.
Yet the kind words
are gone, a thing of the past.
I've seen the monster within.
I
stand for courage and honor, in contrast,
To your love for dark
arts and Slytherins.
Your antics are hurtful, undeniably
absurd.
Yes, this is what I think.
I owe no apology for
uttering these words.
Into darkness I shan't sink.
These
words are no longer trapped inside my throat,
They are hurtful and
harsh, it's true.
For I have spoken, by you provoked,
Devoid
of compassion and rue.
