art from within the skull.

Welcome to my home.

It’s my borderline home.

In the kitchen we have shattered plates that the people that I love and I have shattered on each other’s heads.

The pieces still lay on the tile like they belong there.

The dinner table is all nice and tidy.

“Family time is not to be tainted with tears” as my mother says.

The broken glass halos the table.

Which is the good and which is the evil?

Welcome to my living room.

On the couch there’s condoms under the cushions.

Cause sex and Love sometimes seem indistinguishable at times.

I know this, but it won’t stop me.

The news is on tv.

The anchor says that marijuana won’t solve my problems.

Good thing the tv remote has an off button.

There’s family living magazines on the coffee table.

I guess my mother doesn’t know how to glue together a borderline family on her own.

Let’s move on to my bedroom.

There’s razor blades in book pages and in between folds of clothes.

There’s bloody tissues encasing their power they hold in a sharp metal edge.

There’s a shadow in my bed.

It hasn’t got up in days.

It lays there and heaves instead of breathes.

The scraps of compassion it has for itself have been sewn into a quilt that is already fraying at the edges.

Theres clothes on the floor.

They have been there for weeks.

Dirty underwear and stained shirts

Rot on the carpet, marinating in my suffering.

New clothes sit on my dresser.

They will never be worn.

I am always changing.

Never repeating.

The relics of trauma stay hidden in my room.

Can’t let go of the hurt.

Letting go hurts more.

My bathroom has bath water still in the tub from weeks ago.

There’s 6 different sugar scrubs.

One for each of my traumas.

Sometimes I’ll sit on the grouted tile floor and scrub all the dead and dying skin off of me.

A new skin grows in.

Soon to be scrubbed off again.

There’s a new toothbrush.

My teeth will continue to yellow.

Can’t figure out a reason to care about myself.

There’s hair dye on the counter top.

Impulsive decisions shape my life.

I can’t stop it.

Sometimes I don’t want to.

There’s vomit in the toilet.

I stick my hands down my throat just to feel better.

My body doesn’t thank me.

This is what I am.

A constant pull in separate directions.

A constant tug at my reality.

I can see my reflections in the broken dishes, I am on the cover of “how to fix a family” magazine, I see my figure in the shadow that lives in my sheets, I am laying on the bathroom floor.

I am stretching at the seams.

And now it seems

That this skin that holds my disease within, cannot be broken with tears of skin.

Bleeding and purging will not stitch back together a mind that cries so easily. It can’t fix a brain that sabotages its health.

My body and mind may shut down when I sit across from my therapist.

But it’s what I need.

It’s fresh paint on the wall.

It’s buying new plates

Throwing away razor blades.

Crawling out of bed with atrophy soaked knees.

It’s taken lots of destruction to understand

That I am not breaking.

ransacking my happiness will not kill me.

I’d rather kill myself with kindness.

Let the seeds sown in my blood grow into bouquets.

I’ll give them to my loved ones with a rusting smile and an apology.

I’ll get better.

This is my art blog. My main is @pansexuwal

I don’t post on there much anymore so i decided to make this blog for my art and try to post more often.