Cry With Me

Cry With Me

~*~

"Did you hear what she did?"

"What?"

"I heard she slept with three guys at once!"

"No!"
"Yes."

"My, my, my, the little girl finally got over her crush. And so flamboyantly too!"

"Isn't it scandalous?"

Cry with me

As the world twists and bends

And the shapes blur and whirl

Blown by the hurricane of insults

Spat from the crimson red lips

Cutting through my shields

Desperately holding back tears

Until I am alone

I hear them talking about me. Slut, whore, freak, they are all common. Some even say it to my face, but few do. I used to fight back, but I just don't see the point anymore. They will just keep talking and spreading rumors no matter what I do. I do have my dignity, though; I have never cried in front of them. Ever.

And then the tears don't come

They dry like a withered leaf

And I can feel my soul shriveling

Under the barrage of hate

The flows so easily from the mouths

Of those who don't need to worry
About being hurt again and again

It's funny, for so long, I fought not to cry, not to weep, and now I couldn't if I tried. I'm numb now. No feeling, just existence. And no one notices, not even my brother and his "perfect" circle of friends. They don't even know that the rumors exist, kind of like the way they are with me -- they don't really know I exist either. I walk to breakfast and I feel hundreds of eyes on me, the Hogwarts' Latest Slut, and I hear the words they say. They don't even bother to keep their voices down anymore. And I don't feel a thing, except resignation.

Because they are the ones who mock me

And jeer with no reason except to insure their safety
Against the others hurtful words
And they try again and again to make me weep
And sob out "Stop it, stop it!"

I know they do it so someone other than them is being talked about. If they talk about me, then there is no interest in what others are doing. It keeps them safe. Their personal Jesus -- crucified in their place. Not that I'm anything near his level, but the metaphor fits, in a way. I take the hate so they don't have to. And it gives them a sense of being superior to me. If they are taunting me and showing my faults, they look bigger in their eyes in comparison. I still don't fight back even though I know it's wrong. It's sad that they feel the need to do this.

But I simply lie there in pain

And wait for them to exhaust themselves

And walk away from the tormented, huddled body

Lying there on the stone-cold concrete

Silently screaming and screaming

But outwardly calm and cool

They have moved up in the world of killing me, instead of doing it mentally and emotionally, they have gone on to physically. I guess I "slept" with one girl's boyfriend and a group of them decided that "enough" was "enough". You should be proud of me, I fought back some. Not much, mind you, it was a big group of girls, but enough to be able to say it. Yay me. I didn't cry out once, though.

Never show your pain. It's my motto. They trying to break me, until I begin to lose myself, but I have never lost my calm. The famous Weasley temper must have missed me. Or so they think. They don't know what it is like inside, where I'm silently cursing them to hell for a prolonged stay -- they think I'm the world's best scapegoat. Let them believe it -- I know the truth.

And all you need to do is look

At the flash of pain and hatred flickering

Like a candle flame in dark brown eyes

Soon gone and replaced by a numbing obliviousness

They don't know how much I hate them for making me hate myself. I hate myself for allowing them to do this and for not fighting back. Yet, whenever I try, my apathy takes over and I just go on as I was, forever taking it. There must be something wrong with me, because I no longer care.

As I taste the calm metallic tang of blood

And wait, getting up slowly and painfully

As not to incur the wrath of the better ones

Another day, another battle. Most days it is mental, today it was physical again. I sit here with a bloody lip and nose, lucky to have gotten out alive, but I don't feel lucky. I am ashamed to say that I played dead so they would leave me alone. Once, when they hit me, I pretended to be knocked out. Not that it stopped them much. But it kept it from going on much longer. I stayed there for an hour, praying that someone, and no one, would find me. No one did. Finally, I made my way up here, to one of the towers, and mourned my fate without tears. I don't know how anymore. There is nothing but a terrible lack of color, and I grieve for that most of all. I don't want to go back to the common room, to face them, because that would bring more. I wish I had the courage to fly off this tower without wings, for that would be a true escape. But I can't, and I don't.

And I have no one to go to
And cry on their shoulder and sob

My brother told me he was worried about me. Ha, the only reason why he noticed I existed was because of Hermione, and she rarely notices me. Just call me the Invisible Girl, the one no one sees, except as an object to please them. They tell me that they will always be there if I need to talk to them, and yet, I know they won't be. Not truly. They are wrapped up in each other, trying to save the world, and accidentally forget me. I don't blame them, but I do wish it were otherwise. Except, it isn't, and I will deal with it. What else can I do? Exactly, nothing. Not that it will stop me from trying...guess I got the Weasley stubbornness too.

I can't help them, even though I've tried. Besides, they wouldn't want the help. Thus, I am stuck here, with the taunting voices, alone. Nevertheless, I, Ginevra Weasley, will survive. I have to, if only to irritate them. At least I know I'm good at something...

I am useless as an old piece of seaweed

Crumpled and dead with no source of help

And no one will

Cry

With

Me