I MADE ART FOR ATE ALIBI <3 + mini comic of my social anxiety 👍 (@questionablealibi )
aoughh, I panic when I talk to cool ppl... (Usually end up panicking and staying silent lmao) BUT I sorta like how both this and the art work came out. (Also forgive me if I got the back hair wrong ;-;)
Mahal kita ate Alibi <3 /p
+ Ate Birdy (birdify) on their shoulder lmao
I love your Sona so much, it looks so cool and AGHH- Even though I'm not the best at drawing it and I struggled immensely, it's gorgeous. <3
58 notes
·
View notes
don't go where i cannot follow (aka table au pt 2)
Home is something Beatrice has grappled with. A word that sits on her tongue unyielding, it sours the inside of her mouth. The taste lingers and there is no reprieve for breathing. She does not care for a place in the world but something inside her needs it. The thought shames her, to need something so desperately. (To want on the brink of desperation and longing, to search for an answer only to be scorned tramples her heart). The need sweeps through her and she is helpless to do anything but let it pass. (And yet she cannot stop looking, she is not human but she hopes wildly like one).
Beatrice has always felt rigid, a tension in her bones that shadows her. There's something inside of her that coils, it twists and twists and Beatrice sees no end. A hole inside of her that swells to the size of her heart. It’s all encompassing and Beatrice cannot escape. She is a mouthpiece to pain and it is clear to her how much it is just Beatrice and the expanding absence of Beatrice.
There is nothing but time for Beatrice, she holds it heavily with tight hands. She was pressed from a weeping willow, crushed, squeezed to an unbearable degree of pressure that Beatrice can’t remember how to let go. (She dreams of it, hands pressing insistently against her, shoving her back into the absence of herself). She holds a tight relationship with time, it passes and she holds on.
She remembers everything and nothing at all but the only thing that has mattered to her was pain.
It is what makes her Beatrice. The pain leads her down a path, it becomes her. There is no Beatrice without pain. She cannot find herself amidst the sensation, she cannot separate anything memorable without pain. She doesn’t know who she is without pain. She is shaped by the people who have hurt her and she wishes she could let go, (but the scars stay permanent and she is still a table).
There is no god, Beatrice doesn’t believe in such trivial things. But when you’re a table all you have is time. She entertains the thought, some deity, a higher power pulling strings, a fate predetermined and she hates the idea. She would pull them thread from thread, vein from vein with her bare soul. She would claw her way to the heavens to rip the tether of pride between gods and watch them fall.
But there is no place for bitter resentment in her heart so she tucks it away. A feeling never to be touched but always too close for comfort. She fills her day falling into habits. She’s particular about her routine, she spends the first few hours of dawn sitting inside of herself. If she were a tree it'd be easier, freeing, but confined to the shape of a table she feels wrong. A loss she doesn’t want to dwell on for the fear of being consumed. (She doesn’t know grief directly, but she knows this feels something akin to it).
It’s taxing to be okay with where she is, there is no life here. (Some days she wakes up with a deep rooted fear that she was dying herself, a willow tree rotting from the inside out and how do you even begin to save yourself?) But she has to move on.
Beatrice never stays in one place too long. She's seen quite a few places, each one different than the last. She thinks she must be an ugly table to be passed around in different hands (and yet they all still seem to treat her with care).
Her current stay hurts her eyes. Everything's a bit too bright for her even with her fuzzy vision. She can make out shapes and objects she recognizes but it's still straining.
She doesn’t notice her at first, Beatrice spends an obscene amount of time tasting the environment. It’s clean, albeit a bit suffocating but there’s airflow, proper ventilation and if she closes her eyes she can pretend. She likes the muted buzz of other voices, she can’t understand them but it comforts her knowing they’re there.
She finds her slotted in between ungodly times of the day, she always seems to be in the midst of something.
There is something about her that bothers Beatrice. She can feel her vibrating, there’s something palpable there, something tangible there that will burn her. And Beatrice, (who has only known pain), has never wanted it so bad.
7 notes
·
View notes