Depression is the bitch that will tell you you’re shit and anxiety is the voice that will keep you up at night wondering if she’s right. I’ve been having a threesome every night for the last 24 years and yet the only thing lying next to me is the pile of clean clothes I haven’t had the motivation to put away yet. I invited you into my bed for those rare moments where legs spread, back arched, I could feel for just a moment that there was one of me instead of three. But mental illness is a jealous lover and you were never meant to stay.
i asked you if you thought i was toxic. you said you didn’t know what to tell me. so i finished the bottle and now my shoelaces are contraband.
I believe that Stiles would be such a sensual kisser, like, just being alone with that one person and everything would be so soft and gentle, his breath just fanning over you, his lips would never be firm or rushed, like, he’d have the same passion in one small kiss and his hands would always make their way to hold your cheeks and it was only when both of you were alone that you’d recieved these slow, heart-racing, love-filled kisses and I think I’m that moment it would feel like love in its purest form.