He Was A Star Collector.

It started at the pit of my stomach, a deep full pain of two words I was too afraid to say. It was there so long that I named the butterflies inhabiting my stomach Voldermort and Tom. They came alive everytime the name was mentioned, the face was seen, falsely spotted in a crowd. They danced and battered their way up through the rib cage where so many breathes had passed, these words writhed scatchily through the throat that a last borrowed Locket wouldn't soothe. When they oozed down my tongue and spat out of my unwilling mouth. They fell, meaningless cinders upon the now empty room.