Filch's cat,
Is my new nick name,
Plain, filthy, scrawny, scary,
They all say the same.
Except him of course.
Ten times my size,
Broom in hand, alas!
No magic.
I should have guessed.
He pleads I understand,
That no men in this world are equal,
That he is still devoted,
Yet,
Unable to provide.
His weapons are my eyes.
Red, raw,
I lick my paw,
My wedding ring lost,
Beneath a clump of matted fur.
At what cost,
Do I purr?
Unfair!
I scream, in a hazed memory,
When I had two legs, breasts, the bare skin on my chest,
Back in the day,
When I tried to look my best.
It was for him you see,
The man with the broom,
The vacant expression,
The peppered tongue.
We were young,
Two peas in a pod, that was odd.
Looked down on by men,
With serpents for tongues,
Spitting, swearing,
We squeezed with our thumbs,
Until our fingers were numb.
Then it happened.
A year of sweet, innocent love had passed,
Me and my groom,
Happy, at peace,
We even shared a room.
My parents didn't approve.
Neither did the men with serpents for tongues,
Now fully grown basilisks'.
I was in for one.
But one what exactly?
Day?Week?Month?Year?
I shed a feline's tear,
For here it comes,
The pain,
The change,
The mutilation,
The humiliation,
The fear,
All for love.
And here he is,
Asking me to understand,
That selfish old man,
I don't even have fucking hands!
CITEȘTI
Forming a Feline - Mrs Norris
PoezieA poem I wrote about Filch's cat in Harry Potter. This poem was based on a fan theory I read that implied Mrs Norris was once a teacher at Hogwarts. She and Filch had supposedly had a love affair. Mrs Norris was then cursed into a cat by a Slitherin...
