I'm one of the closest friends of the Boy Who Lived. Precautions have been
taken for my safety, to protect me from the evil that lurks down the dark
corridors of our secret world. Not in me, though; I'm a Gryffindor. If I'm
in danger, it's from external forces only: Death Eaters, Voldemort.but what
they don't realize is that I'm dying every day. Dying bit by bit, my life
leeched away by normalcy.
I don't know how long my soul can resist, retain any color or vivacity. Each day drones on, an endless funeral procession of carelessly slain (minutes days months years). The (books and notes and charts and tests) don't fill the empty spaces left by their passing anymore, because I can see through them into their own emptiness. You can't fill a hole with nothingness, nor can you make it deeper. It just stays, every moment of your life. I ache all over. My soul is screaming and no one hears because I've been struck mute.
I want. Something. I don't know anymore.I used to think it was Ron, that he'd kiss sunlight back into my soul, forcing it into my mouth in piercing daggers of light, but his hair is fire and so is he. Intangible, unreachable, inextinguishable, Ron-they're all words for the same reality and is it mine? Parvati reads romance novels. She says that love or a boy fills you, takes away the pain. But those are set somewhere else. I used to think Hogwarts was somewhere else, somewhere long ago and far away, but the charm of Charms has worn off and I can see the darkness lurking in the corridors of the school of my mind always coming (closer clearer brighter/darker). Brash sunlight is reduced to impotence and I fear that Ron can't fill me. Square plug, round hole. No. And if it should fail to break the monochromatic monotony, what then? When (love kisses sex) don't awaken you, what can you do but die on the thorn of a blue rose of forgetfulness?
Love isn't enough. Work means nothing. Pain? But no, I don't want that. I'd rather die empty than dine on gall and sweet, coppery, sunshine blood. That's what Draco does, and Pansy, and I see the emptiness in their eyes, shining with a blinding darkness. His blood her blood drawn by savage kisses of nothing. Expected. Slytherins (hurt kill want take). They are (leather and blood and acid and) never ever tears. Gryffindors aren't supposes to think like that. Not expected. Not allowed. I can't. I will not be them, not because I/they are Gryffindor/Slytherin, but because I know that that isn't the answer. He kisses her murderously, leaving her lipstick darkened even more by bruises.
Ron. My (thoughts hopes dreams fears) keep coming back to him. I am an unwilling sliver of ferrous oxide drawn inexorably to his magnetic north. He was supposed to fill the emptiness, break the stifling normalcy, and restore the fairy tale that everyone knows should be my life. But I. He. This. It seems so ordinary now. Expected. I had no choice in the matter; (Students parents WWN Harry) made up for any lack of certainty in me. So expected that I could not but expect it sometimes. But. What of (sun blood light grass soap Quidditch Ron) is not thesis but rather antithesis? Must I then synthesize myself into a dream of others? Who would I be were I not myself? I know most girls pour themselves into the molds of others' minds, but I am not a skilled enough artist to follow their example. I will neither shape myself nor allow others to sculpt me into a more pleasing shape. Not even Ron.
I want. The idea of (Ron love wholeness). I want his kisses to be enough to satisfy my body/mind/soul. I want the union of two hearts to be enough to fill the pit that yawns gaping beneath my breastbone. I want him. I want (kisses fingers feather-touch breasts brush hips heat).
But there are lots of things I want. I want Harry to have a family, and to no longer fear for his life. I want Sirius to be alive, and to be able to be with Remus openly. I want Ginny to finally fall in love with someone available. I want the war to be over. My wanting makes no difference. A dying witch's curses stick, but I am still too alive, The death-nothing hasn't taken enough of me yet. Ironic, isn't it?
They say that nature abhors a vacuum. That leaves me two options: life and death. Everything smears together, but only black and white appear. I am (white sweet good). The quintessential good girl, prefect, sweet schoolgirl in my innocent uniform. A Gryffindor. But blood is sweet as sugar, and I am not as good as they think I am. Prose is not enough, will never be enough. And some of the best poetry is the darkest. (Blood pain death sex want) lies coiled beneath my plain, proper, white blouse, so close to the surface that my skin feels as thin as the cotton fabric covering it. And each day the nothingness leeches away another millimeter. Soon, so soon, it will set the snake free. Who will be able to protect me then? Who will fill the vacuum left behind, in the place where the darkness once clawed? Whose kisses will be able to plunge down into my secret pain?
I don't want it to come to that. (Rot darkness evil emptiness) is eating away at my heart. What happened to the story? When did I transition from fairy tale princes to gothic heroine? What is wrong with me that I feel this way? Perhaps I truly have no heart, just a vacuum that eats away at everything around me, draining it of color until it ceases to satisfy. Sweet Circe, don't let that be it! Please, let me be just a girl again! Let me worry about (homework parents friends feasts balls Ron). All I ever wanted was to be ordinary, accepted. A girl, not an (encyclopedia outcast know-it-all traitor bitch villainess heroine). I just want to love him, and for that to be enough to dispel this pain forever, and to live happily-ever- after.
My (story life soul heart) is shattered. I don't know who I am anymore.
I don't know how long my soul can resist, retain any color or vivacity. Each day drones on, an endless funeral procession of carelessly slain (minutes days months years). The (books and notes and charts and tests) don't fill the empty spaces left by their passing anymore, because I can see through them into their own emptiness. You can't fill a hole with nothingness, nor can you make it deeper. It just stays, every moment of your life. I ache all over. My soul is screaming and no one hears because I've been struck mute.
I want. Something. I don't know anymore.I used to think it was Ron, that he'd kiss sunlight back into my soul, forcing it into my mouth in piercing daggers of light, but his hair is fire and so is he. Intangible, unreachable, inextinguishable, Ron-they're all words for the same reality and is it mine? Parvati reads romance novels. She says that love or a boy fills you, takes away the pain. But those are set somewhere else. I used to think Hogwarts was somewhere else, somewhere long ago and far away, but the charm of Charms has worn off and I can see the darkness lurking in the corridors of the school of my mind always coming (closer clearer brighter/darker). Brash sunlight is reduced to impotence and I fear that Ron can't fill me. Square plug, round hole. No. And if it should fail to break the monochromatic monotony, what then? When (love kisses sex) don't awaken you, what can you do but die on the thorn of a blue rose of forgetfulness?
Love isn't enough. Work means nothing. Pain? But no, I don't want that. I'd rather die empty than dine on gall and sweet, coppery, sunshine blood. That's what Draco does, and Pansy, and I see the emptiness in their eyes, shining with a blinding darkness. His blood her blood drawn by savage kisses of nothing. Expected. Slytherins (hurt kill want take). They are (leather and blood and acid and) never ever tears. Gryffindors aren't supposes to think like that. Not expected. Not allowed. I can't. I will not be them, not because I/they are Gryffindor/Slytherin, but because I know that that isn't the answer. He kisses her murderously, leaving her lipstick darkened even more by bruises.
Ron. My (thoughts hopes dreams fears) keep coming back to him. I am an unwilling sliver of ferrous oxide drawn inexorably to his magnetic north. He was supposed to fill the emptiness, break the stifling normalcy, and restore the fairy tale that everyone knows should be my life. But I. He. This. It seems so ordinary now. Expected. I had no choice in the matter; (Students parents WWN Harry) made up for any lack of certainty in me. So expected that I could not but expect it sometimes. But. What of (sun blood light grass soap Quidditch Ron) is not thesis but rather antithesis? Must I then synthesize myself into a dream of others? Who would I be were I not myself? I know most girls pour themselves into the molds of others' minds, but I am not a skilled enough artist to follow their example. I will neither shape myself nor allow others to sculpt me into a more pleasing shape. Not even Ron.
I want. The idea of (Ron love wholeness). I want his kisses to be enough to satisfy my body/mind/soul. I want the union of two hearts to be enough to fill the pit that yawns gaping beneath my breastbone. I want him. I want (kisses fingers feather-touch breasts brush hips heat).
But there are lots of things I want. I want Harry to have a family, and to no longer fear for his life. I want Sirius to be alive, and to be able to be with Remus openly. I want Ginny to finally fall in love with someone available. I want the war to be over. My wanting makes no difference. A dying witch's curses stick, but I am still too alive, The death-nothing hasn't taken enough of me yet. Ironic, isn't it?
They say that nature abhors a vacuum. That leaves me two options: life and death. Everything smears together, but only black and white appear. I am (white sweet good). The quintessential good girl, prefect, sweet schoolgirl in my innocent uniform. A Gryffindor. But blood is sweet as sugar, and I am not as good as they think I am. Prose is not enough, will never be enough. And some of the best poetry is the darkest. (Blood pain death sex want) lies coiled beneath my plain, proper, white blouse, so close to the surface that my skin feels as thin as the cotton fabric covering it. And each day the nothingness leeches away another millimeter. Soon, so soon, it will set the snake free. Who will be able to protect me then? Who will fill the vacuum left behind, in the place where the darkness once clawed? Whose kisses will be able to plunge down into my secret pain?
I don't want it to come to that. (Rot darkness evil emptiness) is eating away at my heart. What happened to the story? When did I transition from fairy tale princes to gothic heroine? What is wrong with me that I feel this way? Perhaps I truly have no heart, just a vacuum that eats away at everything around me, draining it of color until it ceases to satisfy. Sweet Circe, don't let that be it! Please, let me be just a girl again! Let me worry about (homework parents friends feasts balls Ron). All I ever wanted was to be ordinary, accepted. A girl, not an (encyclopedia outcast know-it-all traitor bitch villainess heroine). I just want to love him, and for that to be enough to dispel this pain forever, and to live happily-ever- after.
My (story life soul heart) is shattered. I don't know who I am anymore.