Gryffindor: fast decisions, impulsivity, temperament. A sparkle in
the eyes. The will to fight for everything you want. Ambition. Bonfires and
drunk words. Dragons and knights and swords. Loud voices in a hallway. Always
saying what they’re thinking. Laying outside with the sun shining on their
face. Heavily breathing. Running. Wide grins. Falling in love not easily, but
when they do, they’re falling hard and love deeply and fiercely. Making other
people laugh so hard their sides hurt. Long car rides and singing along loudly
with the windows down. Peace signs for a photo. Fierce eyeliner and red
lipstick combined with colourful clothing and golden accessories.
Ravenclaw: overthinking things. Worrying. Not handing in homework
because they were to busy working on their latest project. Not finishing
something and already starting something new. Ink stained fingertips.
Instrumental music. Posting a quote under every picture. Creativity. Self-made
birthday gifts. Staring at the rain pouring down the windowpane. Sitting in the
car and acting like a movie star when a sad song is playing. Earphones on the
table. Holding a hot cup of tea. Art journals. Notebooks with half the words stroked.
Messy hair. Bringing books to school. Hugging someone when they’re upset without
saying a word. Bucket lists full of things they didn’t do yet. Bronze
eyeshadow. Dark lipstick.
Hufflepuff: always trying to smile even though they might not be
feeling well. Long hugs when they see their friends. The smell of freshly baked
cakes and muffins. Sandcastles. Trusting. Understanding. Running home under an
umbrella when it’s raining but still smiling. Holding hands with your best
friend in public. Laughs in the middle of the night on a sleepover. Daisy
chains in your hair. Always sending a good night message to the people they
love. Wool socks. Rubber boots. Making compliments. Decorating notebooks with
stickers. Marshmallows. Rosé and orange lipstick.
Slytherin: mysterious, reserved. Competitive. Silent whispers in
the hallway. Black coffee. Planning out things. Always afraid they’re not who
they’re supposed to be. High expectations for themselves. Clean rooms. Emo
lyrics on exercise book papers. City lights. Watching the stars appear with a
glass of red wine. Smirks, raising one eyebrow. Being careful not to leave
marks in the books they read. Moonlight through a window. Sharp retorts. The
smell of cologne and brand new books. Dark chocolate. Black and white
photography. Mint leaves in a cup of hot tea. Keeping a diary. Winged eyeliner
and silver bracelets and necklaces.
• The night
• The deep, dark ocean
• Sirens (the mythical kind)
• Equations and formulae
• Messy handwriting
• Perfectly preserved skeletons
• Ravines and cliffs
• Fortresses surrounded by snow
• Space, the moon, stars
• Perfectly packed suitcases
• Ordered shelves (only that INTJ understands the order)
• Dark chocolate with spices and salt
• Pens that run out moments before your last sentence
• Dark circles under the eye
• Computers and laptops
• Broken glass
• The London Underground Map
• Chemical experiments
• The wind
• Tall, leafless trees
• Circuits and motherboards
• Bitter coffee
• Herbal teas
• Simple but elegant crowns
• Dark green and bronze
Pretty boy, lovely boy, with his flaxen curls framing a
sweet face and big blue eyes with big black lashes. My mother, when she was in
our run-down trailer and not at the bar, would say such looks were wasted on a
boy and that she wished I was born a girl. I’m certain she wished I had never
been born at all.
School was hellish from the start. Girls viewed me as a
living doll to play dress-up with, and boys hated me because I made them
confused. My third grade teacher once made a comment about my cherry red mouth,
the gym coach complimented my porcelain skin. The computer teacher got fired
after cornering me alone. I did not understand it – I wore run down charity
store clothes, spent most of my time with my nose buried in a book, and barely
brushed my hair. And yet, here was the whole school bearing down on me.
Puberty made it worse. All my classmates grew and stretched,
flushed with hormones and lust. I grew some, yet no straggly hairs or bright
red pimples popped on my china doll face. Instead, the star quarterback would
torment me so he could grope at my long legs and graceful hips. My teachers
would compliment my academic achievements and then mention that someone like me
being so aloof was a shame. The theater teacher asked if I was “interested
in boys” in hushed, hopeful whispers.
I was not gay or straight. I was Uninterested. Why would I
waste time chasing after shallow and petty girls who were jealous of my
appearance? Why would I let one of those testosterone-hopped jocks paw at my
body and call me a faggot afterwards? Why would I want my fat, balding English
teacher to bend me over for an easy A? They called me frigid, uptight, bitchy,
rude, prudish. I wore it with pride all the way to the top of my class.
I left my little Midwest town for a college in the big city.
I thought it would be easier there, full of beautiful people to blend into.
Towards the end of November, my roommate tried to roofie my water bottle, and
the double room became a single room very quickly. For sophomore year, I got a
studio apartment on my own.
That fall quarter was beautiful, the trees like brilliant
fire throughout campus, and I took a communications class required for my
major. It was about giving presentations and speeches, and the school website
said Professor O'Malley was to teach it – classmates had described him as a
jolly old man, a little longwinded but excellent at teaching discourse and
I sat towards the front, my empty notebook neatly dated, and
my classmates chattered all around me. I paid them no heed, eyes casted
downwards, but I looked up when the door to the lecture hall opened right
before class was to begin. The man who strode in was not Professor O'Malley.
He burnt white hot, reality dimming around his gravity.
Everyone seemed so tarnished compared to him, dark-haired bronze-skinned Adonis
among the gray and listless dead. Square-jawed and towering, his presence was
so thick it was sweltering, smothering, suffocating. My classmates all gasped
as his eyes swept across the class.
Can I, undress you?
Undress your mind, undress your thoughts,
I know, its not what you thought.
Although physically I wouldn’t hesitate to,
give you a helping hand to
remove the boundaries
that are stopping these
honey like words from pouring over your lips onto your deep, dark, bronze skin.
from your mind
from your heart
from your soul.
Don’t stop, keep it going keep it warm,
drowning in your words,
the depth in your voice,
the soul in your story,
the pain in your throat,
I’m glad this is what we came here to do,
Thank you, for letting me undress you.