Learning How To Do Pixel Art. I Think I Made A Depressed Nacli. Or An Emo Mushroom:

Some old photos of mine that I'm kind of proud of.

TW: poor mental health, self-harm

Help Me:

Can you help me feel comfortable in my skin and keep the demons from getting in?

Can you help me silence the voices when I'm going deaf from all the noises?

Can you help me keep my hands away from my itch though all I want to do is tear my skin off when I scritch?

Can you help me steady my breathing if the choking air gets too seizing?

Can you help me save myself from drowning in my negativity before your place in my life starts uncrowning?

Don't know if I'm gonna flesh this out more but here's a random plot bunny.

TW: mentions of death, self-harm

She couldn’t remember him.  Couldn’t remember who he was.  Who he was to her.  His face in her memories looked like the time…the time…someone…spilled his? Her? Drink on her sketchbook.  Who was he?  Why couldn’t she remember him?  Remember his face?  His face was wrong.  Wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong.  Why couldn’t she remember?

“I’m sorry —”

She couldn’t remember.  Whywhywhywhywhy?  She wants to remember.  Don’t take his memory away.  Please —!  Don’t leave her.

“I’m sorry —.  You’ve always been my —”

She wanted to remember.  Needed to remember.  Neededneededneededneededneeded.  How?  She scratched at her skull.  Scratched and scratched and scratched and scratched and scratched as if that would dig away the blurriness.  She kept scratching, knelt in the grass the soil that was left after everything was washed away.  She was stuck there like an abandoned Halloween decoration someone placed in the middle of the field forest and forgot about.  She needed to remember him.  She tried to dig the memory out of her skull until something fell.  

It was a friendship bracelet.  It was old.  Had fallen apart and been put back together again and again and again and again and again.  It was dusty.  And the colors were muted.  But there was a name on it.  Sora.  She stopped scratching and stared at the bracelet.  Repeating the name over and over and over and over and over again.

“I’m sorry Sora” 

She looked at the bone the bracelet fell from.  There were four others.  All old.  All dusty and muted and broken and put back together again carefully.  Gently.  Like they were loved.  But she wasn’t supposed to love things anymore.  Or people.  Did she have any loved people left anymore?  She looked at the names on the bracelets.  Viola, Liam, Jake, and…  She took off the one closest to where her pulse used to be and picked up the one that fell.  The one with her name.  She cradled them like they’d turn to dust at any moment like her memories almost did.  She still had loved things.  She still had loved memories.  They couldn’t take those away.  But…  She cried softly and brokenbrokenbrokenbrokenbroken and barely brought herself to whisper one word like a plea spoken like a sickly child asking if today was the day she left his side.

“I’m sorry Sora.  You’ve always been my daughter”

What did the memories matter when she lost the only people she wanted to create them with?

“I never should have let you go with them”

Learning how to use Photopea

Edited Photo:

Original Photo:

Might be part of something larger.

TW: depression, self-harm, suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, blood

Red. Red was a beautiful color. It wasn't her favorite color but there was something enchanting about it. The way it flowed down her arm into the sink, taking her pain and memories with it. She couldn't tear her eyes away even if those people were screaming at her. Red. Down her arm. Red. Down the sink. Red red red. Down the drain. It was the only time she felt okay. Though she had to do it often since the feelings didn't last long. The relief, the comfort she felt in her skin for once, how she finally loved herself in those moments, it was all too short. She needed more red. Enough to last longer. To last the rest of her life. It was the only way she'd ever be okay.

Some old poems of mine (1):

Leave:

Blood is thicker than water.

Or so they say.

Maybe they lived in a different world.

I believe,

that what doesn't have a form

is even stronger

because it's what you imagine.

Family can become enemies

and friends can become family.

Strangers can catch you when you fall

while people you know are content to let you hit the ground.

Forget the mindset that you have to stay

and take care of yourself.

Some old poems of mine (2):

Headphones:

He yells

I put on my headphones

But even they can't drown out his anger

Or the looks that say:

"This is your fault"

"You just get in the way"

"It would be better if you never existed"

But all I can do

is put on my headphones

Some old poems of mine (4):

TW: depression, mental & emotional abuse

Mornings:

What I dread the most about mornings,

is waking up.

Waking up to a new day of pain,

of anguish,

of a never-ending cycle

that tears me apart.

Waking up to a family

that isn't family,

and being beaten

until I wish it would all end.

The worst part about mornings,

is having to stop dreaming.

Someday I'll learn how to draw feet:

Based on this keychain: