Hallelujah

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.