So, I decided to make some space on my blog for drawings. This is my latest. Self-portrait.
OC’s. Based on excerpts/headcanons from my book.
Really old ones that you might have seen before.
Also kind of old ones that I’ve never posted.
Some from my sketch-book. The latter, illustration to go with my post Morphazine.
Last one. Anxiety attack, illustrated. Kind of a quick vent-art from this week, which has offered quite a few challenges and breakdowns. As you can see.
All works (c) me.
Let me show you my new dress.
It was cheap.
wear and tear-article,
patchwork of crushed hopes
belonging to some little child
in a factory
you made this for me?
now I can stand here, in the roaring crowd
at the eye of the town square
tiptoeing all over the sharp stones of existence
showcasing just how normal, stuck-up and
indifferent I am
But then I bled trough.
It happened quickly.
I didn’t even notice the tear in the fabric
until some kid pointed at my stomach and laughed.
“Look! She’s wounded! She can’t even walk!”
his mother hushed him, dragging him away from me
“We need to be grateful for all we have,” she said.
I scurried home,
tears pouring down my cheeks
I locked myself in my bedroom and spent the rest of the day
wrapping myself up in linens
layer after woven layer,
would cover the fanged hole in me
and stop it from leaking
“Tomorrow,” I whispered to myself, “tomorrow I’ll be prepared.”
It all started out well
I was gliding trough the polished city streets
earning compliments on my exterior,
someone told me they wanted to take me home
slit my throat and fuck my corpse.
what do words mean anyway
An old woman came up to me and asked
just how I’d managed to become
so admirably ignorant
and was about to start explaining the basics of apathy
when I felt the fabric around my hips starting to melt
and the familiar scent of smoke
from underneath my skin
oh, why does everything dissolve like tendrils
like hot wax,
clogging my veins?
Now I am become transparent
the destroyer of contemporary fashion.
with nothing at all to cover my shame
I try out another shirt,
clothe myself in layer after layer,
each one adapting the shape of the previous
there’s no escape
cotton walls are like a bomb ticking around my waist,
reminding me of how much time I have left.
How thick would you like your armor today, Sir?
Make it wool,
make it silk,
or glimmering marble,
so I can be a statue,
a work of art.
Critics can stare,
nod, and pretend they understand what’s going on
as I’m standing naked on the town plaza
wearing the face
I took his saliva and distributed it evenly
over my soaring wounds
I was a harlot again
filthy consolation girl throwing my skin off
for anyone who as much as touched me
But they couldn’t know
what was going on behind my shut eyelids
They didn’t know of the man following me everywhere
Sitting on my shoulders
Sucking on my bruises
They didn’t know he was cruel
they never heard him yell into their heads
things they only speak of in hell
or lower elementary school
Neither could they know
our battle was a long fought one
while he built towers for me
I would sit there
like some fucking Rapunzel, awaiting a savior
or maybe just a momentary relief
a rough canoodle
behind the labyrinth of thorns
someone would come up to me and say
“hey. I like the things you do”
I would be stunned
over how they dared to challenge this monster
whose bare apparition would have turned the noblest knight around
there are, in all honesty, some battles
better left unfought
but I would look up at them and their face would beam
and it was then it hit me
that they couldn’t see him
they didn’t know they’d just stepped up and thrown a rock into a volcano. They didn’t know the glimmering light in which they appeared to be illuminated.
They thought I knew all of this.
Are you attracted to wounded animals?
Come here, sweetie
I’ll show you my scars
tell you how I’ve suffered
to make you get on your knees for me
I’m not responsible
For your careless desires
Do you like it only when it can’t hurt you?
Do you like it only when I whimper?
You should be ashamed
You’re the one walking
on the other side of the bars
Won’t you pity a carcass
an empty lover
to hide inside?
I would have heard you say no
if I didn’t see the blood from your flower
dripping down your bruised legs
to love is to convince yourself
there is nothing more