Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Harry Potter characters. I mean come on now, if I did Harry would be snogging Draco instead of Ginny. Hee hee.
Author Note: This is in the POV of Draco Malfoy. First time poet, please R&R.
Aware
I am aware that it hurts.
Aware that as my blood is pooling on the surface,
I die a little inside.
Watching crimson spill to the cold floor,
I ask myself why?
Of course I know it's wrong.
To spill something so vital to living.
To give it up so easily and carelessly,
in order to feel.
Even just for a moment.
In order to know.
To know that I can feel.
That I'm not the cold heartless basterd that raised me.
Even just for a moment.
But do I speak a word of it?
No.
Do I ever ask for help?
Never.
I don't need to be helped.
I don't want it.
I don't want your pity.
I don't need it.
You say it's something mental.
I say it's addictive.
Consuming even.
A way of life.
A simple act of harmlessness.
It will heal.
It will fade.
But the scares remain.
To remind me that not everything in this world is perfect.
Remind me that I'm not perfect.
And to remind me that not everything is what it seems.
That I'm not what I seem.
I'm aware that it's wrong,
that it hurts,
I just don't care anymore.