Malignant ••• George Weasley

Chapter 22 - Poems and Heartbreak

It was well after midnight by the time George had walked Juna home. He didn't come in, they were both tired and both had to work tomorrow.
He had given her a tender kiss on the lips before they parted ways, their touch lingered on each other with an exhausted longing, but their respective beds were calling.

Once showered and fresh, Juna collapsed onto her mattress, her lamp beside her bed casting shadows around her room as she stared up at the ceiling.
She wanted him. She wanted George so badly.
She wanted to wake up next to him and go to sleep next to him. She wanted to brush her teeth with him and argue about who should do the dishes. She wanted to play fight on the couch and cook him his favourite meals.
But she couldn't. And she never would. All because she was born into the MIU.

She audibly sighed as she rolled onto her side, her eyes falling onto the book of poems she had checked out of the library by Charles Bukowski. She had placed it next to her bed before her shower.
She was so tired but one poem couldn't hurt right? If these poems were good enough to catch the eye of George Weasley, they must be pretty good.

Juna opened the book to a random page and began reading.

How is your heart?

during my worst times
on the park benches
in the jails
or living with
whores
I always had this certain
contentment-
I wouldn't call it
happiness-
it was more of an inner
balance
that settled for
whatever was occurring
and it helped in the
factories
and when relationships
went wrong
with the
girls.
it helped
through the
wars and the
hangovers
the back alley fights
the
hospitals.
to awaken in a cheap room
in a strange city and
pull up the shade-
this was the craziest kind of
contentment

and to walk across the floor
to an old dresser with a
cracked mirror-
see myself, ugly,
grinning at it all.
what matters most is
how well you
walk through the
fire.

Juna read the last sentence over and over again.
What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.

She felt that in her heart, as if it belonged there. She spent her life walking through fire, or so it felt.
It was strange to read words she had never thought of, but felt like she had always known.
That's the immense beauty of art she supposed. People can put onto paper and tapestry what others only feel, they capture it in such a way that makes one instantly recognise something they've never seen or heard or read before.
The novelty of being human.

Eagerly, Juna turned the page. Keen to soak up more power through the pages.

My Dear,

Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.

For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it's much better to be killed by a lover.

-Falsely yours
Charles Bukowski

••••

Juna woke the next morning, tiredness weighing her down, the open book of poetry splayed over her chest. Her dreams had been filled with strange images of fire and love and pain, safe to say that would be the last time she was going to fall asleep straight after reading dark poetry.