Hallelujah's
my favourite song, and you remind me of the ugly jagged lines I ran after
Sylvia's words: "I felt dreadfully inadequate. The trouble was, I had been
inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it." I really wish I’d
straightened those lines. And both you and I while I was at it.
Harry and
Hermione don’t belong together. I just say they do because of you. You are the flaring,
begrudging flame that makes me heave when I see Ron look at her the way he
does.
Honey, I
feel dreadfully inadequate.
There’s
nothing on this hell of a world I hate more than the premature sore in the
throat. It makes my chest burn like I just lit both my lungs on fire using
three packs of cigarettes. The pain’s not there altogether yet, but you know
that you’ll wake up tomorrow hearing your own cries trapped inside; your ears
aren’t clear, your nose’s running, and he hasn’t vacated your mind yet.
The
antibiotics don’t make it any easier. It’s not my first time.
Baby, I’ve
been here before.
I should
just smoke on those cigarettes, it won’t really make a difference.
I wonder how
your current victory march’s withstanding.
I really hope it isn't.
Because,
honey, I’m one cold, broken Hallelujah right now.
