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There’s usually a boy. Sometimes
not. Either way, there’s someone
and they’ve hurt me.
There’s someone and they don’t
love me back,
because that’s what I want. That’s
I’m sorry, you know? I don’t know
what to do with the ones who have
already been here, so I pretend.
I play dolls. I change their names
and their clothes and their stories.
Call me what you want. I know
what the truth is. I know what to
put in between the lines to make it
sting like a real thing.
I know how to make myself better.
Still, I wish I could touch my
own heart instead of writing about
what it must feel like.
I wish I could do anything without
What’s left to be honest about,
if not this? What’s left?
When things don’t happen,
I kick up the dirt, I blow on the
dust, I shake the snow globe.
So what if dragons aren’t real?
I bet you wish they were.
when McGonagall finds out that Ginny is pregnant, and that the Weasley and Potter bloodlines will converge, she marks on her calender the day the child will turn 11 and that is the day she retires