Title: Aerial
Pairing: one-sided Ginny/Tonks
Summary: "Believe me, I know how to float, my voice and thighs are all that's left of me."
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimers: The characters belong to JK Rowling. "Nym" is from "Centering," by Kate Bolein. Inspired by The Last Time I Wore A Dress, by Daphne Scholinski.
I do know how to get away. Whatever you may think of me I do know that. Believe me, I know how to float, my voice and thighs are all that's left of me. And my hair flaring up, defending me when I'm too tired to breathe. I'm such an invitation, all of me... don't ask me how.
Cause I know what it is to feel and want too much. He knows that too, or he did... once. But he'd lost it by the time he met me, trained himself in hollow mysticism. So unreadable. He used me for my bright eyes and my rabbit's heart. And me, I don't want to be oh so breakable and I'm not. Not anymore.
I kiss boys, yeah, but they can't take it farther. Hands up my robes, sure. Say the words and I'm gone. What no one seems to realize is I no longer fall in love. I don't want declarations as they burn you, weigh you down. Shh. I don't flutter, I just strut.
The heart it's just an organ- alien and throbbing. Don't think [I]that[/I] slipped past my notice. But, Nym, if I had a heart that's what I'd call the girl who slips away. She comes back when I laugh and sleep but she gets so ashamed when she's touched. Not that I blame her, the bruised girl writing with red ribbons, and in a way I started floating a long time ago. Yeah.
I was telling Fred this, the other day when he visited. I didn't realize you were in the house too. I took out the part about the way I float, but I did brag a bit. "Love is all pain, no gain," I said, glorying in my immunity. Unlike Ron, the twins have never felt the need to infantilize their little sister, dream of her ethereal. He said it was clever of me, he wished he'd thought of it. And, well, I had to appreciate that although I almost said, that's cause they never burned you up with hands that were just half alive, you never had to huddle in the ashes, cooling yourself off.
You must've been there to talk to Mum, because you stuck your head in and asked if I really felt that way. I said yes. "I used to be like that," you said. "You think you're protecting yourself but you do have to wake up someday. Hopefully sooner than I did." I bit my lip and ducked my head, which I don't do anymore. Signs of weakness, interdependence. Damn.
Thought it was a one-time thing but it's all come together to my doom. Your dark familiar eyes and wicked giddiness have always made me smile but now I grin like blazes when I see you slouching up to our door, from a window up high. I can always recognize your off-center trudge no matter how disguised it may be. Knowing someone's walk, that's bad. That's how it starts or so I'm told, by people who would know.
I tell myself I'm dead and broken, teen angst stock phrases wash away the shame. Besides Tom says I'm prettier that way. But even though I'm dead I still want you to touch me and I want to be there, want to know it's you. I don't want to be above it all. I tell myself this isn't true.
I do know how to get away. My voice and thighs are all that's left of me. I don't want to be breakable and I'm not- I'm already broken. I don't flutter, I just strut...
Except that none of that is true anymore. Fuck you, Nym- you've stolen my grip.
Pairing: one-sided Ginny/Tonks
Summary: "Believe me, I know how to float, my voice and thighs are all that's left of me."
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimers: The characters belong to JK Rowling. "Nym" is from "Centering," by Kate Bolein. Inspired by The Last Time I Wore A Dress, by Daphne Scholinski.
I do know how to get away. Whatever you may think of me I do know that. Believe me, I know how to float, my voice and thighs are all that's left of me. And my hair flaring up, defending me when I'm too tired to breathe. I'm such an invitation, all of me... don't ask me how.
Cause I know what it is to feel and want too much. He knows that too, or he did... once. But he'd lost it by the time he met me, trained himself in hollow mysticism. So unreadable. He used me for my bright eyes and my rabbit's heart. And me, I don't want to be oh so breakable and I'm not. Not anymore.
I kiss boys, yeah, but they can't take it farther. Hands up my robes, sure. Say the words and I'm gone. What no one seems to realize is I no longer fall in love. I don't want declarations as they burn you, weigh you down. Shh. I don't flutter, I just strut.
The heart it's just an organ- alien and throbbing. Don't think [I]that[/I] slipped past my notice. But, Nym, if I had a heart that's what I'd call the girl who slips away. She comes back when I laugh and sleep but she gets so ashamed when she's touched. Not that I blame her, the bruised girl writing with red ribbons, and in a way I started floating a long time ago. Yeah.
I was telling Fred this, the other day when he visited. I didn't realize you were in the house too. I took out the part about the way I float, but I did brag a bit. "Love is all pain, no gain," I said, glorying in my immunity. Unlike Ron, the twins have never felt the need to infantilize their little sister, dream of her ethereal. He said it was clever of me, he wished he'd thought of it. And, well, I had to appreciate that although I almost said, that's cause they never burned you up with hands that were just half alive, you never had to huddle in the ashes, cooling yourself off.
You must've been there to talk to Mum, because you stuck your head in and asked if I really felt that way. I said yes. "I used to be like that," you said. "You think you're protecting yourself but you do have to wake up someday. Hopefully sooner than I did." I bit my lip and ducked my head, which I don't do anymore. Signs of weakness, interdependence. Damn.
Thought it was a one-time thing but it's all come together to my doom. Your dark familiar eyes and wicked giddiness have always made me smile but now I grin like blazes when I see you slouching up to our door, from a window up high. I can always recognize your off-center trudge no matter how disguised it may be. Knowing someone's walk, that's bad. That's how it starts or so I'm told, by people who would know.
I tell myself I'm dead and broken, teen angst stock phrases wash away the shame. Besides Tom says I'm prettier that way. But even though I'm dead I still want you to touch me and I want to be there, want to know it's you. I don't want to be above it all. I tell myself this isn't true.
I do know how to get away. My voice and thighs are all that's left of me. I don't want to be breakable and I'm not- I'm already broken. I don't flutter, I just strut...
Except that none of that is true anymore. Fuck you, Nym- you've stolen my grip.