dear horcrux experiment number 4,
i don't believe that you're dead, your voice is always in my ear and your touch is always dirtying my skin. i know everyone always says never to disrespect the one's who are no longer living, but this can't be my worst deed— the future will see to it. a whole new level of hell will be set for me ( you always did say i was special)
grave digging is nasty work. but your grave is small and fragile like you were ( are?) and a spiraling mind won't stop until it's settled. you have me spiraling, the closest to dancing you ever got me.
but like i said, we can change that next time? you seem to be worth more than i thought.
spiraling and spiraling and spiraling. i feel like i'm stuck in a film, one you'd constantly make me replay while i'd make terrible comments about things the killer should have done differently while you would laugh. they weren't jokes. and i'm stuck in this film reliving the day you died, sweet and sunny, and now all my days are grey because none will compare to the feeling of the sun on my back as i wiped my hands dry.
so i'm going grave digging next weekend. when the sky is dark, and the new moon is peaked. i hope to see you there. and when i open your casket will you sit up with a smile?
i'll protect you from the monster that hurt you number 4.
number 5 was boring. only two months. she made the comments about the stars seem interesting and i almost missed your tendencies.
i don't though. i promise.
i don't. i don't. i don't. i don. i do.
your liar,
-tom riddle