Fated Carcass

Look at my reflection, Mother.

I feel empty, void of electricity. Can't you see through my siamese windows? All that is left from our verbal war are ashes. The love that I was born with could not burn forever, and now I'm left cold in this putrid ice, trying to freezing time and butterflies, never quite succeeding, for they're stronger than me, no matter how much I try to seek the magnitude of my elements. They are lost within Happiness, a realm in which I dare not hunt in.

What do you see?

My eyes are parallel reflections themselves, but they're simply cracked, not scarred. Forgotten from the emptiness that grew so loud that they deafened whatever compassion I had left. I wonder if you were happy then, to know that I had become a Malfoy, someone who became just a glacier, beautiful but dangerous; the most everchanging of all rock. Nobody could melt it straight but the Sun, but there was never any light for me, only darkness and cruel laughter. There were tea parties, then you smashed the Looking Glass, and I was distorted once again with emotion.

Taste my blood…

Father was never warm and I never knew him, although his blood ran through my veins once before, I'm sure what was left of him has spilled over in a breath. My heart beat too quickly until my skin tore, and my tears rolled inside my lungs. I remember my broomsticks, the servants, the gold and silver jewelled mirrors… earthly posessions that could not fill me. Can't you see, that I never had arms to catch me as I fell? And the owls. I was too heavy for them.

…and be my gravity.

You tried to hug me once; you tried to save me as I plunged into our well of riches, slipping and sliding, strangled by the slow pull of green moss, seducing me into the darkness. But Mother, you let go of me, and through the haze I could only see your eyes like amber glowing stones, half-sheltered with pain. They whipped me with your anger, and mistook me for you. You thought it was weakness, Mother. I thought it was beauty.

Let me expire.

Now I lie crumpled upon the floor. You were the puppeteer who cut my strings, and left me with my extravagant cramps, dull in its mold, trying to contort me into myself. Why can't you forgive me for craving love? I'm so drained of my own, for there is only one thing a reflection can do. Can you feel my dying embers as you walk away? Calling, begging to be rekindled. There is a curtain of stone that separates us, but you refuse to exonerate my soul from its plasticine seed, coated with tar and too tired to fly. Am I that unforgivable?

Dragons were meant to be with emerald eyes, and ropes cannot bind me.