perfection
Okay this is an extreme rarity because I never, and I mean never share my drabbles on my lj, out in the public for people to read.
I'e only posted work twice in my lifetime, and that just for teh GnH Cookie Jar. *weebles*
So, I'm a loser who's artistically constipated.
Don't hate b10tch3s.
Title: Perfection
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Category: Angst
Warnings: Lots and lots of run-on sentences. Beware! r0r.
Sidenotes: 330 words. un-beta`d.
Harry remembers the taste of perfection.
It tastes bitter and stale, like the wood shavings Dudley forced him to eat once while he worked on a woodshop project. Perfection tasted like winter nights and twisted bedsheets and sweat on skin, and all the things he never thought it would be.
Harry thought perfection was clear blue skies and Greek statues and those couture models from France he saw on T.V. But he soon learned perfection was sharp angles and bruised lips, broken promises and narcissus painted onto white white canvas, stark and beautiful and creamy like skin pulled over aqua blue veins, visible, transluscent, dying.
Because perfection wasn't in those magazines Ginny kept by her bed but didn't open, wasn't found in Hermione's books that she didn't read anymore, wasn't found in Ron's laughter since he no longer had any, and it certainly wasn't found in the sky where he no longer flew.
Cause perfection was to completion as Harry was to Draco.
And Harry took his perfection where he could get it, in empty classrooms, in empty hearts, in empty beds, in empty promises. Cause in Draco, Harry found new ways to perfect the art of imperfection, whether it be adding one more bruise or breaking skin or clacking teeth, Harry forgot the difference between wrong and right and black and white because students were disappearing and walls were falling, so it didn't matter who was alive and who wasn't because they were all going to die anyway.
So Harry wakes up and remembers the tune to harsh melodies written on emotions they borrowed from the whiskey on the shelf, and doesn't mind when Draco's insults aren't sharp enough to cut anymore, because the best secrets are never meant to be kept and maybe that's why people still don't know about them.
So Harry finds perfection in frostbite and blood seeping through cracked lips and overcast clouds in dead gray eyes, because perfection is infinite and imperfection was life.
I'e only posted work twice in my lifetime, and that just for teh GnH Cookie Jar. *weebles*
So, I'm a loser who's artistically constipated.
Don't hate b10tch3s.
Title: Perfection
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Category: Angst
Warnings: Lots and lots of run-on sentences. Beware! r0r.
Sidenotes: 330 words. un-beta`d.
Harry remembers the taste of perfection.
It tastes bitter and stale, like the wood shavings Dudley forced him to eat once while he worked on a woodshop project. Perfection tasted like winter nights and twisted bedsheets and sweat on skin, and all the things he never thought it would be.
Harry thought perfection was clear blue skies and Greek statues and those couture models from France he saw on T.V. But he soon learned perfection was sharp angles and bruised lips, broken promises and narcissus painted onto white white canvas, stark and beautiful and creamy like skin pulled over aqua blue veins, visible, transluscent, dying.
Because perfection wasn't in those magazines Ginny kept by her bed but didn't open, wasn't found in Hermione's books that she didn't read anymore, wasn't found in Ron's laughter since he no longer had any, and it certainly wasn't found in the sky where he no longer flew.
Cause perfection was to completion as Harry was to Draco.
And Harry took his perfection where he could get it, in empty classrooms, in empty hearts, in empty beds, in empty promises. Cause in Draco, Harry found new ways to perfect the art of imperfection, whether it be adding one more bruise or breaking skin or clacking teeth, Harry forgot the difference between wrong and right and black and white because students were disappearing and walls were falling, so it didn't matter who was alive and who wasn't because they were all going to die anyway.
So Harry wakes up and remembers the tune to harsh melodies written on emotions they borrowed from the whiskey on the shelf, and doesn't mind when Draco's insults aren't sharp enough to cut anymore, because the best secrets are never meant to be kept and maybe that's why people still don't know about them.
So Harry finds perfection in frostbite and blood seeping through cracked lips and overcast clouds in dead gray eyes, because perfection is infinite and imperfection was life.