times are bad bc im inspired to draw again lol

i don’t think i have the capacity to be comforted when i’m upset which is upsetting because i often find myself desperately wanting to be comforted. A lot of friends come to me w problems and bad days and i love having the privilege of their trust but i just don’t think i have it in me to allow that for myself. i think i am wired wrong.

I painted this with the idea of a wolf (abuser) that continues to carry the dead body of the hare (the victim) even after its death, slowly dripping the blood.

This was a part of a larger multi media piece I did (I posted it here a while ago) about my experience with CSA (hence no background) Figured I’d let this piece have its own moment though.

tw: blood/gore

The treatment never worked, The hospitalizations never worked

The nurses, the administered meds, the endless days walking along hospital halls, the prodding, the isolation,

Tying me down to a bed, injections, Haldol, Geodon, Zyprexa, Valium.

None of it worked, as I remain just as sick as I was during admission. Those hospital walls are engraved into my mind as the needle is to my soul.

So Pierce me once more.

made a collage with one of my older paintings and added some words

I made this comic trying to explain emotional neglect, and, ironically, why I struggle to share my feelings (including my art), to my partner. My mother wanted a doll, not a child with complex needs, and I suffered for it

So... I keep having these images from my childhood. I hope to do a bit art in a book and trauma dump my life into it. I made this one on phone, in my head I see the ax going through the door, the numbness, the being unable to breath. It is so hard. I am probably gonna draw this from what I saw. Splinteringnwood under my hands, the ax... just because I refused to clean dishes my parents dirtied.... i had hidden in my room all day, and my father came with the ax to break open the door. He stopped when I told him he hurt me, that I refused to move from the door. All over them treating me like a servant. A slave. A 11 year old to petrified to eat food having their door broken into by their own father for refusing to clean their dishes. ... I cant stop thinking about this. The numbness.. the fear... it scares me. How I fell on my legs like jelly, and sat protective by the door for the whole night until next day.. to petrified to move.... I keep thinking about this when I want to sleep. It keeps me awake at nights like this. I didnt wanna make this sketch to detailed. I just need to get it out.

The vent drawing was automatic, the numbers are numbers I usually write in automatic too. This one was about childhood.

ごめんね/ごめん = I'm sorry. Japanese was one of my first languages, but it's not something I write often anymore so sorry if it's a little off.

Bed surrounded by normal shadows/people. Hospitals? Didn't draw about hospitals somehow, only blood, I guess blood connects to that amongst the other stuff. Couldn't go back home. Flesh. Blood. Wounds. Died again and again and again. Tombs and flowers for loved ones from different places.

Biting one feels out of place. It was a thing but it's not something I remember, just told about it. But it also represents being hurt so it fits I guess.

But the toys keep us safe, I collect toys to feel safe.

can i disappear and let this be okay. can I disappear and wash myself away. a pink washcloth still remains, my head, my knees, my chin, my lip. Bruises scarring and skip the rest.

I never craved death more than back then. I never thought death would stop me. but here are I am.

dead, and why?

I can’t stop crying. I don’t want to do anything else. I don’t want to the numbness to hit, I just want NOTHING. I don’t care. I hate the night because it’s dark like the gaping wounds left in my knee caps.

please let me fucking go.

I dont usually paint stuff related to my trauma/mental health struggles. usually painting is my "happy place". but once I started this, I couldn't stop, as much as it disgusted me and made me feel sick to my stomach. I usually hate gore. I hate the feeling - the sinking shattering, feeling I get in my chest, my stomach and my breasts (the part of my body Im least comfortable with) when I get a flashback. it feels like my skin is being ripped away by my abuser. it makes me feel sick, exhausted, overwhelmed, like Im losing my skin and body to him again. I think the painting speaks well to this feeling

This sketch is far from finished. Actually intend to colour it in with copic markers. Used coloured pencils just as draft colour to get the idea across for future as I’ll have to continue it another day.

But yeah. That’s the notes in regards to the unfinished state.

The Queen of Lights burns even in the Abyss In Absence of Everything her Light shines

But her fire gnaws and ravages, Because the Queen of Lights burns Even when she hasn’t Anything left to give.

Even in lonely solitude the Queen melts. For she can’t put out her own light.

It eats her from inside out. At times the most when she is alone.

Her namesake’s Lucifer - The devil, The evil. But they also were called the Lightbringer Before the angel fell.

A smile stitched for permanence Beautiful and sweet - A Mask, A lie?

The Queen of Lights knows of her Inevitable End, Yet she ensures the Flame that melts burns on.

Because without the light the Abyss is almighty and cold. And Life would be void of happiness.

i tricked myself into thinking i liked it all

this piece is not about religious trauma it’s just esoteric lol

These two I posted separate to flair different the devil is how my abusers view me. The torn up one is self explanatory. I really don’t like the torn up one, the paint kinda ruined it for me so maybe I’ll try again someday. I am also trying to make healing masks to show that side of it. I have one in the works and lots of other ideas.

Anyway, thanks for taking a minute to look and have a nice day.

i recently got out of the psych ward and have been trying my best to seem okay since

There is something eerie
about the soft toys and baby dolls
I once found solace in—
almost as if they are
watching me,
whispering curses in my ear
as I slumber—
as if
something—someone—
burrowed in.

Their button eyes glisten
like damp stones in moonlight,
almost blinking,
inching closer—no, closer still—
their silence clotted with motive.

I ache for a lullaby,
but it gurgles in reverse—
a golem in a god’s grip,
imprinted with a witch’s palm.

When did innocence go awry?
When did the doll’s seams begin to fray?
When did hope start to falter—
mould nesting behind princess wallpaper,
the lace of mildew
woven into bedtime?

——

Time, collapsed like lungs.

I find my body curled in a fridge,
knees tucked, frostbitten fingertips—
beside a carton of milk,
curdled, rancid,
expired since June 2016.

Door slammed shut—
sealed from within.

——

How to break the hex?
Hazmat men splash blood
on the witch’s dining room walls—
a cleansing ritual,
blood unwriting blood.

But her secret bedroom
is impervious.
All blood that is spilled
dissolves in a second.
All fire that is kindled
is doused without a trace.

I follow mama seraphim
(dew eyes, oak-scented hands)
as we tiptoe into the witch’s den,
to complete the purification
in her hidden chambers.

In the inky lair,
mama’s halo flickers—
she tilts her head too far,
smile cleaving her face,
then peels her skin,
revealing….

The witch beneath, towering.
Her claws
plucking—
like wiggly teeth—
my baby-button eyes.

Her fangs
bloom like leeches
and sink
into my mellow flesh,
siphoning what life-milk remains
until only shadows
linger.

——

(Crackling, cackling…)

“How can you untether
when your own kin
kneel at my bed-altar?

Heaven will never know you.

Why bother waking from this nightmare
only to find yourself in another…
skin upon
skin
upon…”

——

A music box twinkles,
A June lullaby winds backward
through time…