Alone you walk, 

Alone you talk. 

Pretending not to care, 

Pretending not to be in despair.

You mutter to yourself, 

Having an imaginary friend,

The one you play with every-day, 

Listening to what you say.

Not caring for betrayal of any kind, 

Having a nice mind, 

Privately agreeing that a real friend would be better, 

Closer than an imaginary friend. 

Tears glide down my rosy cheeks, 

At the corner of the playground, 

Hearing the sighs and creaks, 

Of the teachers annoyed whispers. 

Why can’t the girl play with others?

Why does the girl refuse the help?

Why is she so weird, 

And never smiles?

That question hurt me a lot, 

Stewing in my brain like a pot, 

Full of bitter, tears and sadness, 

Added with a lot of fears. 

Eyes glistening with anger, 

Agony and distress, 

I stare reproachfully down at the mess, 

That I so painfully come by.

Why can’t I have friends like them?

Why am I so different?

Can’t I play every day with people like them?

But no, they make me think I’m different.

Different, that’s the word. 

Full of spite and racism, 

I have a different race, 

How come they won’t just look into my face?

Thinking back, 

I play the verbal replays, 

Only to myself, 

Never anyone else. 

Teachers make me try to talk, 

Thinking they can help me out, 

But they only make me pout. 

How can they?

They mean to only help, be nice, 

But they make me feel like spice, 

Added as a murderous face, 

Just because I’m a different race. 

By Narcissa Slytherin