I don’t want to live fast and burn out like every burning flame that started with passion. I want to snuggle up next to the universe and remind it to smile a little longer, humans are still evolving– we’re still learning to love with the many you’s and I’s. I don’t want to just grow old and grey and just die. I want to repeat every year with the eyes of a toddler and while every bad dream has a night light, don’t worry– these precious dreams, I’ll keep them safe inside of a time capsule and write them into a treasure map. I hope my grandchildren are great at analyzing poetry and never stop looking both ways before crossing pinkies with lovers– but if in some magical way they aren’t… I’ll always have the answer on the back, it might go a little something like this: Darling, of course it’s going to hurt. It just means that you’re this much more alive than yesterday.
“Have you heard from Y/N today? She said she was sick but she usually calls in,” Sherlock questioned, your absence catching his attention as they began to walk down your street. While he looked lost in his own thoughts, John quickly checked his phone to find still no messages or calls from you.
“No, but if she says she’s sick we should just leave her be. Sherlock, Sherlock no-” John called, trying to reach out and grab Sherlock as he began to turn and head straight to your familiar red door. John’s fingers wrapped around thin air as he stood for a moment, watching Sherlock as he sighed before he looked both ways and crossed the street behind the curly haired man.
“Too late,” Sherlock called back as he ran up to your door, quickly finding your ‘hidden’ key yet he knocked once before. “Y/N?”
“She’s probably asleep, we should just- And now you’re breaking in. Y/N isn’t going to be okay with this,” John insisted as Sherlock opened the door and stepped into your cool apartment.
“I don’t care, I’m just concerned,” Sherlock brushed off John’s concern as the smaller man followed him into the apartment, closing the door behind him.
“Yeah I’m sure she’ll believe that,” John mumbled, looking into the empty living room before watching Sherlock begin to walk down the hallway to your kitchen and bedroom.
“Y/N? Y/N?” Sherlock called as he opened your bedroom door. John watched as he froze in the doorway, quickly moving to join his friend.
“OH MY GOD! GET OUT SHERLOCK!” you screamed trying to cover yourself with your blankets,“Sherlock please!”
“Is- Is that Moriarty?” John asked, peeking his head in the doorframe beside a speechless Sherlock as your bedmate popped up from the covers.
“Hi,” he greeted, a smug grin on his face as he watched John and Sherlock looking at the two of you with your messy hair and the scattered clothes all over the room.
“Good God will all of you shut the fuck up! Yes okay, Moriarty and I have been seeing each other,” you shouted, feeling a headache begin to form as you readjusted the blankets, trying desperately to make sure Sherlock and John didn’t see anything indecent.
“Really! Y/N! I thought- My God,” John stuttered, still reeling though Sherlock stood beside him cold as ice and quiet as he glared down Moriarty.
“You know, people keep saying that today. Is it Sunday? Because I’ve never heard God said this much on a weekday.”
“Shut the fuck up Moriarty!”
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1. i am not suicidal. i would never intentionally take my own life. i simply would not have the guts. however, i no longer wear my seatbelt. i don’t look both ways before crossing and when taking pills i consider no limits. i would not take my own life, but i would not save it either.
2. my therapist asks me ‘what are the chances of you hurting yourself from 1-5?’ and i stutter. when you hear the words self harm you think of bloody wrists and yet my paper skin remains intact. how do i answer when i have never put a blade to my body but my thoughts cut me deeply everyday?
3. i am not eating disorder material. i am no anorexia poster girl. i do not starve myself, i’m not tiny and my fingers have never reached the depths of the bottom of my throat. however when i lay in bed at night i envision a large butchers knife, slicing through the folds of unneeded skin that wrap around my body. my stomach, my thighs. i cant help but wonder if all girls feel as sick whilst looking at their own body as i do.
colouring outside the lines on a therapy sheet. i do not fit the category of mentally ill, but i am definitely not okay.