sdmn one sh~i~ts

Metaphors

words: 1704
warning: depressive language,
mentions of self harm⚠️

i'm addicted to the pain
i want to hurt when i'm happy
i'm so caught up in this lie
sometimes i just feel like i want to-

The sound of a knock on the door behind him made Harry jump from his seat.
"Just a minute!" He exclaimed, whilst putting down his pen and collecting the many pieces of paper that lay before him into one neat pile, then shoving them under his laptop.
"You can come in now." He said bluntly, spinning round in his chair to face the man walking through the door. To his surprise, it was Lux. Although they did share a house, they rarely came into contact, seeing as their schedules never seemed to intertwine.

"What do you want?" Harry asked wearily, knowing that if Cal had enough time to speak to him, it must be important.
"Shouldn't you be busy or some shit?" He spat bitterly, with no real intention to come across as rude. Often, he would allow himself to be driven by emotion, though it didn't always play out in his favour. Callum frowned at his remark, upset by the fact that the younger man believed he had no time for him.
"Just wanted to talk." He spoke slowly, taking a seat on the bed next to him. Harry's eyes narrowed, suspicion filling his mind. He tilted his head to the side slightly, mimicking something of a confused puppy.

"About?" He questioned, starting to feel rather uncomfortable in the silence they sat in. The elder first looked up at the ceiling, then to an empty bottle of water that sat on the desk. He shook his head, in an attempt to be seen as if he were thinking.
"Nothing in particular, really." He finally declared, looking straight back to the ceiling. There was no denying that Harry had already become annoyed with the bearded man and his silly antics, he was tired, he'd had a long day, all he wanted was to be left alone.

"What do you want Cal? Tell me what it is or just fucking leave, for god's sake." He swore quietly whilst leaning back in against his gaming chair, already hating himself for the tone he spoke in.

He wanted to apologise, he needed to. It had only been four seconds since, though it was already eating away at him. His jaw tensed as he clenched his fist, he felt as if he were being ridiculous.

From the other side of bed, Lux watched the boy in fascination. He saw the way he clenched his fist after he spoke, and he noticed how he expressed a look of suppressed pain across his pale face. It took a while for him to regain his train of thought, and as soon as he did, words came spewing out.

"I came in here to talk about, well, you." He scratched his thin beard as he spoke.
"You just seem off recently. The boys are getting worried you know." He continued to study the boys face once he had finished speaking, and he could have sworn that even though it may had been for only a second, he saw a glint of fear in his eyes, or was it anger?

"The boys are worried? If they were that worried they could speak to me themselves. Whatever." He spoke his mind, letting out his thoughts.
"No, the boys? They're worried about me? So... so you're not?" He snapped, getting extremely defensive, and upset by his friends choice of words.
"Do you not care?" He repeated, wanting an immediate answer. The words he spoke slowly sunk into the air, and only a few short seconds later, he already wanted to contradict himself, though he was interrupted.
"Harry, n-no. I care about you, of course I do." Lux stammered, not wanting to upset his friend any further. Though he only scoffed in reply, getting up out of his chair and leaving the room with a passionate huff, obviously not believing him. He watched his flatmate in curiosity, perplexed as to why he got worked up so quickly. The two had been friends for years, and everyone knew one thing. If Harry walks away from you because he's angry or upset, you do not go after him straight away, not unless you want him to go absolutely ballistic on you, slit your throat or some murderous shit. So he sat there still for a while, thinking of a way to get through to him. If not by talking, then how? Right then, in that moment, a thought had occurred to him. He decided he'd leave a note. It was something they used to do very often when they had first moved into the house with Freezy. He didn't really remember how it started, but he knew it would work. So with that he stood, ready to search for a piece of paper amongst the mess of the room.

After three minutes rummaging around the room, trying to salvage anything even remotely close to a piece of paper, he had yet to run into any luck. He walked over the bed, giving up, as he had nowhere else to look. As he sat, he created a slight dip in the mattress, which then allowed a pen to roll down next to him. He picked the object up and held it to his face, wondering where it had come from, because like, who uses pens anymore? He looked over to the side of the bed Harry was sitting on when he first entered the room, and then to the closed laptop beside him. He picked it up, and to his astonishment, underneath it, there lay multiple pieces of paper. He grabbed them quickly, eager to get his feelings down, in hopes of getting through to Harry.

He turned over the first piece of paper, though it had already been written on. So he did the same with the next one, and to his surprise, it had also been filled to the brim with words. He spread all of the pieces out in front of him, hoping that amongst all of them, there'd be at lease one clean page. Curiosity took over, as his hands glided through the mess. Why would Harry have written so much? He chose a random paper, and brought it closer to himself. He read the words carefully, a look of confusion creeping over his face.

have i given up yet, or am i still going?
it feels like life is speeding past
but i am just slowing.
everything is so blurry,
though so solemnly still
lights flashing
music playing
and no noise is heard.
-
the world outside seems scary
though it used to be a dream
i can't walk down a road thinking
why are they all looking at me?
i've spent so long all alone by my self
so when i venture out
it's not just a street, it's hell
-
Am I living?
Am I really alive?
Am I doing all this right?
Am I meant to survive?
What if there is no purpose?
What if we just live to die?
-
my knuckles are purple
my wrists are red
my smile is transparent
and my eyes are dead.

Was this poetry? Did Harry write poetry? Cal quickly skimmed through the pages, only reading certain parts of each one, but stopped on the fourth. Each one of them were rather depressing, but this one seemed to really catch his attention. He began to scan each word carefully, trying to dissect the poem, wanting to know what he had written. His knuckles are purple? So that means they are bruised, right? That's understandable, he thought to himself, as he did take up boxing quite recently. His wrists are red? Wait, does that mean-
"What the fuck?" Harry's voice quietly croaked as he walked back into the room, startled at the sight in front of him. Walking to the bearded man, his anger began to highten, he was scared.
"What are you doing with my stuff?" He shouted angrily, snatching the pieces of paper from him, his heart beating fast.

Still trying to process what he had just read, Cal sat there, still. After a few moments of watching Harry pick up each piece of paper, careful enough not to crumple or rip them up, he decided to speak, remaining cautious as ever.
"What was that stuff Harry?" He asked, in a tone that no one would have ever heard before. He sounded consoling, yet confused, upset, and every other negative emotion you could possibly think of. It was now Harry's turn to freeze, Lux had read it. He never wanted anyone to read these, and now someone had. He felt violated, exposed.
"H-How much did you read?" He asked, trying his best to calm himself. The last thing he wanted right at this moment was to have a panic attack or something.
"How much?" He persisted, when we was met with no answer. Lux shook his head, whilst thinking.
"Only like four. But Harry, are you..." he struggled to find the right word. "are you, okay?" he finally spoke. His words were quiet, but to Harry, they were anything but. He felt as though he had screamed them at the top of his lungs. The younger man stood there for a moment, the papers still held tightly in his clutch, trying to rake his mind for a suitable answer.
"Yes, of course. This is just poetry Cal, nothing to worry about. It's just metaphors and shit." His lie was almost convincing, and maybe Callum would've believed him, if it weren't for the way his voice trembled as he spoke.
"You're lying to me," He stated bluntly, looking Harry dead in the eyes. "Don't lie to me Harry."

***

Being alone with my thoughts
It's such a scary thing
And so are the three am talks
Especially when it's just me

***

okay idrk where i was going with this one, just liked the idea of poet!harry. hope you really enjoyed that super abrupt ending xx

also i kinda wanna write some fluff, how yo you feel about that lmfaooo