Some Old Poems Of Mine (4):

Oh hey, I came here from the BSD proship fans post since you liked it. How are you? Nice art by the way.

Hi, I'm doing good, thanks for asking. What about you? And thank you for the compliment!

First semi-proper attempt at pixel art:

Small continuation of the previous post.

TW: mentions of death, self-harm

Liam was…He was…She could barely remember.  All she could focus on was that he was dead.  Deaddeaddeaddead.  And it was her fault.  He wanted to protect her.  If she was stronger…Not damaged not frail not weak not sick.  He might have been able to stay sane, but taking most of her share along with his made him the most unstable out of all of them.  She lost him the moment he made that choice.

Viola, pretty Viola with the pretty ugly, broken smile at the end.  She wanted to, tried her hardest to, to reassure her that none of it was her fault, but how could she come to terms with what she made her do, how could she come to terms with why she had to make her do that.  All the plans all the promises they made together turned to stardust.  Why wish on a star when it was too far away to help and you never knew how close it was to burning out.

Jake; she felt a bit of  pleasure at what she did to him.  They were always fighting in her memories even though she could barely remember anything at all.  He was always being mean to her.  Looking back she realized he was the one who believed in her the most.  He never did anything nice for her.  He always brought back things he thought she’d like when he went outside.  He was rude and her best friend and her hands were drippingdrippingdrippingdrippingdripping with his blood and she liked it and didn’t like it and he was kind to her and she forgot him.  He helped her learn her limitations and how to have fun in spite of them.  Everything she was died with him.

Father Brown was the one who ran the church and looked after them.  Looked after her the most because she was frail, so frail she could fall down from a single sneeze.  She hated it.  Hated being treated like the old vases next to the front doors.  She liked it.  Liked mattering to someone.  It was the most affection she had ever received from an adult.  He… she scratched her head some more.  He always made time for her.  Always told her about the places he’d been, always answered all her questions as much as he could, always read her stories to protect her from the nightmares and thoughts, always teaching her what she wanted to learn and what he thought she should learn.  He wasn’t just the church’s Father he was her father.

She scratched her head more and more and more and more and more.  She still had her memories.  She knew that.  They were just jumbled and still influenced by the medicine.  She just needed to dig them out.  So she dug at her skull until day turned to night and night turned to day over and over and over again.

The hardest thing to do, is be a digimon fan outside of Asia.

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.

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”