By Chloe
And It Matters Little Now
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You are entirely in love with him when you realize: it is this love that has burned your soul.
You arch your back when his fingers brush down over the all too visible curve of your spine; you curl your own hands helplessly into the wrinkled sheets and pray that morning will find you will find you more whole than in scattered pieces.
You, who planned each moment of your life under the watchful eyes of your parents, have suddenly veered off course. You've taken the wrong trail, turned at the wrong sign, or perhaps you've fallen off a cliff. That's what it feels like. Feels like you are falling.
Harry has given you nothing.
Certainly he's given you himself. But you've given him your soul. You've given him your life-force, your allegiance, you've given him afternoons in dust-ridden closets that ruined your robes and caked dirt under your nails when you tried to dig them in to the floor. He dies before his seventh year.
Harry has left you with nothing.
Certainly he's left you some of what you took for love. He's left you with memories and biting conversations and snippets of cruel, characteristic insults. But you, you gave him your soul, and with your soul he has died and left you with a few strands of black hair and a gaping heart.
And It Matters Little Now
-----------
You are entirely in love with him when you realize: it is this love that has burned your soul.
You arch your back when his fingers brush down over the all too visible curve of your spine; you curl your own hands helplessly into the wrinkled sheets and pray that morning will find you will find you more whole than in scattered pieces.
You, who planned each moment of your life under the watchful eyes of your parents, have suddenly veered off course. You've taken the wrong trail, turned at the wrong sign, or perhaps you've fallen off a cliff. That's what it feels like. Feels like you are falling.
Harry has given you nothing.
Certainly he's given you himself. But you've given him your soul. You've given him your life-force, your allegiance, you've given him afternoons in dust-ridden closets that ruined your robes and caked dirt under your nails when you tried to dig them in to the floor. He dies before his seventh year.
Harry has left you with nothing.
Certainly he's left you some of what you took for love. He's left you with memories and biting conversations and snippets of cruel, characteristic insults. But you, you gave him your soul, and with your soul he has died and left you with a few strands of black hair and a gaping heart.