Art - The only thing I don't throw up

vexme:

Art is smart.

vexme:

Frank got my art and I’m really happy about it, okay

vexme:

Death Spells fanart; get your gorey groove on

vexme:

Being dead does have its conveniences

vexme:

“My Hands”

I partook in a school assignment where I illustrated a visual based on an original poem. 

I wake up to the the smell of iron
Bubbling from my fingers and wrists
Yawning and stretching is nearly a crime
If I reach to pull the covers, check the time, or dim the light
My stiff hands crackle like lighting in the sky
For my days and nights, I pretend I don’t have hands
I stick them in my pockets, smother them in gloves
Tuck them beneath the folds of my sweater
I don’t like to admit beyond the lines of my forearms
As far as I’m concerned, my hands don’t exist
At least, not in this world
They’re out there, somewhere
Fluttering bravely against rosy cheeks or
Bringing lines to a paper without staining it brown
I don’t like to see what my hands do within my own scope of reality
Dark and calloused as they are
My nails have seen the insides of nearly ever inch of my flesh
They’ve dragged out bloody canals that last only a few moments
But they dry up in patches of brown, of red,
Often leaving oozing, yellow swamps on the outskirts
Sand builds up, water recedes
My body becomes a desert
Smooth, beaming health abandons me without regret
Or rather, without choice
If I shut my eyes and reject the temptations of
The scraping sand forever engrained within the ladders that define me
When I shut my eyes, the strings pull my fingers
Up and down they go, forcefully digging out chunks of my exterior
Leaving flakes and droplets of bruising evidence
Stained forever into my sheets
Twisting fingers against fabric
For the sake of relief
That’s when it starts
And I wake up to that smell of iron
Bubbling from my fingers and wrists
Hissing with excruciating steam from my pores
Furious at my subconscious neglect
Sometimes, I even fantasize about falling down to my knees on the side walk
And grinding my hands, wrists, and fingers into the filthy, cold cement
Grating all the flesh off my bones, layer by layer
Scour away the muscle, crush the blood vessels into a paste
Shave the bones into dust

vexme:

Sand builds up, water recedes. My body becomes a desert. 

vexme:

Experimenting 

vexme:

In which Amanda Palmer plays a tardis ukulele in a cat dress

drawn by yours truly with no sense of proportion and really what the fuck is a ruler

Happy [Late] Birthday, Raven!!!

vexme:

Hey look who draws now

I’m incredibly happy that my art has been able to touch you in such a way; but I’d like to clarify that I’m not actually bulimic.

The whole theme of bulimia is more of a metaphor for my state of mind. My eagerness and desire to improve, in combination with my self-perfectionist standards, often harm me more than they help me.

That aside, I’m glad and flattered that my art has instilled some hope in you. That alone gives me hope as well.

Thank you, and the very best of luck with your trials.