Occasionally I remember that there’s little old ladies around who just… grew horns. Like sun exposure made them grow horns and shit. And like, I know it’s like skincancer but, that’s so badass ya know. Little old women with horns.
I had the urge to draw something eye strainy. Here’s this.
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hey google what fucking part of “hair bangs” did you get “demon fetus” from?
My OC Camryn. His tongue is a gulper eel hybrid parasite that’s he’s formed something of a symbiotic relationship with. The parasite offers protection and makes him immune to most diseases, but it is slowly taking a toll on his body.
lotta shitty tma doodles i did 2day,, mr jonathan jarchivist i have feelings for u
I want to bite open my wrists
He contacted me today.
He reached out for a fleeting moment and I reflexively reached back. But long after making that decision I’ve grown to regret it and thusly have recoiled in guilt.
For what am I to do if he hurts me again? Hurt him back? I cannot.
And now that I have pushed his broken hand away, having chosen not to listen to that gentle tone he uses on me–the one he reserves especially for me, for my ears only. I am at a loss. For once I hear it, I deeply fear that my throat will yet again clamp itself shut, suffocating my core by harshly stamping out the little bit of fire I have left inside me.
My broken heart stutters as I think of it. For if my breathing ceased when the corner of my blurry eyes betrayed me, what shall become of me if I am to truly see him? For if his ghost haunts me so, what am I to do if I experience the real thing once more?
As much as it pains me to say, I believe that not wanting to see him is what pains me the least. I feel far too broken and betrayed. And over what? A spat between families that perhaps I had caused? But what was I supposed to do, turn him away without a pause? I’m far too weak for such a thing.
I always have been.
Part of me doesn’t want to welcome him back into my lowly domain, the dark place of words and songs that mean nothing to nobody, not even me. Even though I’ve been ostracized and bitterly tossed away, utterly damned for attempting to make sense of the unsenseable, the pointless, and the useless. Though, I was once a king there, but no longer and not for many years.
Even now as I lay and write this from my lonely coffin, I can’t help but think, has he taken advantage of me whilst I was at my weakest? Or perhaps was it me who started the game we play back and forth. What were my intentions anyway? I can’t help but wonder. However, the surrounding silence brings me no answer for once again, my emotional and mental rejection has run its course, leaving me separated from my thoughts.
He likes to lie to me, tell me tall tales that never reach the starry sky above. The moon weeps for me as I stay and listen, cigarette in hand as I live to slowly kill myself another day. Despite having enjoyed killing time with him, listening to his dusty yarns that he’s been dying to tell someone–anyone that he crowns worthy.
Perhaps it was just me.
More likely there were others.
I can’t control him, nor do I want to. For if I can’t make my own muscles and bones work, how am I to make someone else’s do the same? I’m not in the position to control any longer, that throne and that castle of thorns burned down many years ago, in the days that my rule over my own imagination and body came to an end. That metal door has been shut and locked for a very long time now.
In the following days, perhaps weeks, perhaps months, perhaps years.. I must ritualistically inform myself that needing to be alone for a bit of time.. is supposed to be okay. For I shan’t welcome him back into my domain, the lowly place of monsters–the place of innocent ghosts and guilty demons.
I wish I hadn’t seen what I thought I had saw today, I wish things were better as they had been before–never less, never more. For now I’m left aching. My bones are broken and my organs have burst, now oozing various fluids and unseen emotions everywhere around my abandoned corpse. The thin red slits on my arms seem to be the only thing that leaks something normal, something red. Regardless, it’s something that I can easily recognize through my hazy state as the life drains back into me as everything is sucked back inside and lightly bandaged with flimsy tape that just barely holds everything together as I pick myself up off of the bathroom floor I had initially died on.
Even now as a walking corpse, a zombification of what once walked the earth, perhaps I will find that I can mean something to someone again. Perhaps I will find something new. Maybe finally I’ll be missed when the usual role-call comes up. But that most likely won’t be for at least a week unless someone who lives with me notices early that I am not the same as I was on that day I had met him.
And it’s all because he contacted me.
I love Jane Prentiss, but y’all know there are gonna be worms