some muggleborn like “i want to be an astronaut when i grow up!”
wizard kids like “wtf is an astronaut”
"oh you know…the people who go to the moon"
Slytherin girls grow up to be librarians.
They grow to wear solid green stockings
and short skirts by the river
even in late November.
They drink coffee black out of kitten mugs.
Slytherin girls own just two pairs of boots.
They write young adult novels
where the teen girls are gay
but adults reading the books cannot tell.
They carry notebooks stuffed with paper letters
that have been crumpled and flattened over and over.
They deliver the letters
by setting them on fire inside your mailbox.
They still expect you to read them.
Slytherin girls sleep naked.
They will drink whatever you hand them.
They eat breakfast for dinner.
They forget to eat dinner.
They lock themselves out of the apartment.
They lock themselves out of the building.
They have not washed their socks.
They do not have enough quarters for laundry.
Their photos on facebook were reported as inappropriate.
Slytherin girls are sick of Slytherin boys.
They don’t understand all the fuss.
They go to local sporting events and sit
in the back row and write in notebooks.
They tear out the pages and crumple them.
They hold the balled up paper in their hand.
They look at the players and wonder
if they could ever run that fast.
She uncrumples the letter
and smooths it out and puts it back into the book.
Syltherin girls can bake bread but
their cookies always come out hard.
They will not go with you to get sushi.
They do not want you to pick them up.
They will meet you at the food carts.
They do not drive
They do not bike or take busses.
They stop halfway across the bridge
and look at the water
and stay until it is dark enough
to see the streetlights reflect.
They walk to your house
and if you are not there
they wait for you on the front steps.
When you come home,
you do not have to make her dinner or get her drunk.
You do not have to turn the lights off.
She will unbutton her top but will not take it off.
She smells like cigarettes and blackberry tea.
You can smell it in a room for hours after she is gone.
She has an unfinished loft on the fourth floor.
The pillows on her couch are smeared with eyeliner.
At home she only wears the shirts of boys
she no longer sleeps with.
She picks flowers from the neighbor’s yard
and sits on the couch tearing them into small pieces,
concentrating like a surgeon.
She writes in her notebook.
She tears out the page and crumples it.
She throws it out the window.
She sits in the window looking down.
She turns on the shower
and leaves it running.
She puts on her shoes.
She walks down the four stories
and brings the crumpled letter back,
flattens it out,
slides it back into the book.