I swallow the capsule,
wait for the flood of silver,
to gush through my bloodstream,
settle my brain.
Outside, darkness comes,
to rest upon the snow, shadows
the ordinary world.
Why can’t I live, ordinary?
Summary: Phil can’t help but notice the boy with dead eyes who wears baggy jumpers all the time and barely talks anymore. Not being able to stand how sad he looks, Phil begins to slip notes into Dan’s locker in hopes of raising his spirits. Word Count: 2216 Warnings: Implied self harm (doesn’t describe it at all, just implied), cussing, depression Title Credit: Such Small Hands - La Dispute
- There is a boy with mocha hair and caramel eyes that turn slightly mahogany in the sun who has a dimple in his pale cheek and has long fingers that shake slightly whenever he talks or even when he reaches for things or writes. There is a boy with dark circles under his eyes who comes to school sometimes with curly hair and wears baggy sweaters that he constantly pulls over his hands like he’s nervous about something.
The first cut wasn’t the deepest.
No, not at all.
It was like the others,
a subtle rend of anxious skin,
a gentle pulse of crimson,
just enough to hush the demons shrieking inside my brain.
But this time they wouldn’t shut up.
I hate this feeling. Like I’m here, but I’m not. Like someone cares. But they don’t. Like I belong somewhere else, anywhere but here, and escape lies just past that snowy window, cool and crisp as the February air.