criptic

Vent art

I’m sorry if the imagery is disturbing…. I rarely publish things like these,ms paint kind of gave me chance to try turn the negative into actual (VERY)quick clean artform, to rely some message or emotion. Vent art is a great tool, it is personal and might be criptic, so people can find what they want in it, maybe bringing them some delight from their own pain? I don’t like to publish gore for the sake of it, nor spread sads, so whenever I do publish these for you to see - it’s only because I like how the art turned out and I want to share it with you. So hopefully I didn’t make anyone sad or worry, it’s simply artwork, part of me (maybe not that nice part but I’m also only human >.< ). So hope you can enjoy it without disgust or feeling bad from it or for me - no need to! I like this kind of aesthetic too! *EDIT* venting is great on paper! It works much better to release pressure.

2

“You make me feel…” he sighed, shaking his head before trying to refocus himself on what he was doing.

You couldn’t help but frown at that, it was far too criptic. No, you wanted, youneeded to know what you made him feel.

“I make you feel what?” you asked, softly, carefully, as if terrified of what the outcome could be. You wanted nothing more that to hear something positive, hear that he had fallen for you, that he felt the same way you felt, but you couldn’t help but feel that wouldn’t be how the conversation would go. No, Harrison Wells was not one to open up like that, but then, you hadn’t expected him to start talking about his feelings either.

Putting down the device he had been working on, Harrison rests his head on his hand, exhaustion getting the best of him. He doesn’t look up, unable to bring himself to look at you, unable to bring himself to witness your reaction, whatever it may be. Fear grips him as he sits up straight, letting his sight focus ahead of him for a moment, thoughts obviously going through his mind at a million miles an hour.

Shaking his head once more he forces himself to look at you, and oh how hard that simple action is. His eyes catch yours and you can’t help but feel as if you were choking, as if you were a deer caught in the headlights. You wanted so desperately to know how he felt, yet the thought was suffocating.

“No,” he starts slowly, desperate for you to understand. “You make me feel.”

"You're like Queen Anne's Lace," he told me.

I hate playing this game. The one where the other person says something relatively cryptic (or at the very least, clearly unfinished) in an attempt to bait you; instead of just saying the thing they want to say, they try to get you to ask about it. It’s always seemed sort of… cowardly? to me. I really hate playing this game.

I’d like to think that I’m generally a patient person, but I was feeling not-very-patient that evening, for whatever reason. Probably a variety of reasons. I responded with a curt and somewhat dismissive, “I don’t know what that means.” I probably threw in an eyeroll, too.

“Oh. It’s a wildflower. It’s really beautiful, and it looks so delicate – kind of like baby’s breath – but it’s not. At all. It’s surprisingly strong, and it can hold up through the toughest of summer storms.”

I immediately felt like an asshole, because good god, what an exquisite compliment, what a delightful arrangement of words, what a gift.

This was a while ago, but I won’t soon forget it. As lovely as someone may find me, there’s so much more to me than how I look. My appearance doesn’t define me – my strength does. How freeing is that?

I’m like Queen Anne’s Lace.