ROTROTROTROT!!!

  WHAT’S UP! noah here with yet another one of his ( many ) original characters from both an upcoming horror series + visual novel!! if you like characters that COMPLETELY juxtaposition the nature of their lore, then here’s to introducing the literal (ex)GRIM REAPER ( at least, one of them ) – but PINK and GLITTERY and your BEST FRIEND!!!

𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

“  let’s go home.  ” “  um,  excuse me?  ” “  you broke it.  ” “  need a hand?  ” “  please,  help me.  ” “  i missed you.  ” “  i’m not sorry.  ” “  tell the truth.  ” “  what happened here?  ” “  got a minute?  ” “  life’s a bitch.  ” “  you’ve done enough.  ” “  i’m still learning.  ” “  don’t touch me.  ” “  was that you?  ” “  there’s no god.  ” “  you deserve better.  ” “  you’re a saint.  ” “  you are enough.  ” “  maybe you’re right.  ” “  this will pass.  ” “  you complete me.  ” “  you got this.  ”

𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑

“  don’t be so dramatic.  ” “  no guts,  no glory.  ” “  i’m calling for help.  ” “  run away with me.  ” “  it’s always been you.  ” “  some things take time.  ” “  you’re being awfully quiet.  ” “  please don’t hurt me.  ” “  snap out of it.  ” “  did you miss me?  ” “  how do i look?  ” “  i wanna get better.  ” “  whatever floats your boat.  ” “  i’ll love you always.  ” “  what are you waiting for?  ” “  at least i tried.  ” “  give me a kiss.  ” “  what’s the fucking point?  ” “  god,  i love you.  ” “  i’m doing my best.  ” “  i waited for you.  ” “  you woke me up.  ” “  stay with me tonight.  ”

𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄

Hog-tied and lunatic.                         Born toothsome, unholy. Born uppity.             Blue-jawed and out-order.   Watched her sculptor                   split her bitter seam                       with his scalding knife; mauled through the errant                 flesh of her nature

and hemorrhaged mercury, molted snakeroot, a smoke           of weeping silver. She, accused. Sprung from the head of a thousand-fisted

wretch or a blood-dark                                   cosmos undoubling her bound body.                     Vexed shrew. Blight of moon.         She, armory. Pitched-milk pours from her gold oracular.

Bred in her nest a lone                           grenade, prized, unpried its force-ripe wound.

She, disease. Often bruised to brush the joy of anything. Zombic. Un-groomed.      

Her night slinks open its sliding pin. One by one these loose hopes

harpoon themselves in, small-ghosts alighting at her unwhoring.    

She, infirmary. God’s swallowed lantern, tar-hair and thick.

Her black torchstruck. A kindling stick. No sinkle-bible fix

to cure this burning. Shrill hell. Jezebel.

Isn’t it lonely.