Hey guys, I’m terribly sorry for the lack of updates lately! I’m moving out of my hometown and everything is a mess, so instead of new art have two old sketches that I posted on twitter and then forgot about lmao
I drink milk every day because my doctor says I need it to grow. Kind of like I need this calcium rush in order to make my bones stronger so I stop cracking them so easily. Preventing them from ever reverting to the weak, knobbly knees of last summer when a boy I had a crush on. Had a crush on, crushed me. Like a pulp. Into grains. Like a spoon grinding up soggy cereal swimming at the bottom of a bowl. I wake up in the middle of the night, remembering I didn’t drink 3 glasses today, and run to the refrigerator in my socks and chug it straight from the gallon, barbaric and yearning like a schoolgirl hitching her skirt up too high, and picture the white flowing through my veins. Softening me. Rounding me out. Giving me curves. I get a brain freeze instead and pray I’ll stop crying over spills and that I can sleep with this cold lurching in my stomach.
Maybe one day my hair will stop being so limp in the heat, but I don’t think that kind of thing can be anticipated, so I just have to wait. Girls like me live in the back of an un-air-conditioned convenience store, ratty sweatpants, tight tank tops, and crawl out with week-old receipts bursting from their pockets. Like glued ribcage kind of girls, like elastic hair tie, red marks around the wrist kind of girls. The cashier doesn’t mind when I snag a magazine from the rack and browse through it without paying because no matter how hard I try, I end up looking pre-pubescent anyway. And they let things slide. For a girl like me, at least. I’m saying, lopsided bun, wide eyes, a mouthful of crooked teeth, stars pulling them into their places, I was always too scared to get braces. The cover has some headline about how to enlarge your breasts naturally, which I think might be useful, and another about how to communicate effectively with others without saying hurtful things, which makes me laugh. I flip to the back to check my horoscope and eat that prophetic, adolescent shit catered to the teenage soul up like Eucharist laid under the tongue. Swallow down a spoonful of March’s: “Prepare to face some stress this month, but that’s okay! You’ll be able to get through it and find time to relax.” I want to rip out the page and shove it into my bra, like keeping these soft, meaningless words close to my chest will make them seep into my heart and change me. Stop making me think so much, fill my brain up with Arizona tea and static instead. But I’m cheap, and I shove the magazine back. I think my chest will stay flat forever.
I seek healing. Mending. I’m fingernails deep, sitting in the back of a subway at 3 a.m., pressing crescent moons into the leather seat, trying to dig up salvation. You can’t find that here, you can’t find that in the cracks between the tiles, you can’t find comfort in the ground up cigarette butt stamped into the floor. I’m wishing against this fogged up glass I could say anything, anything that would make sense for once, so someone could help me. Like please, my mind is bending in backwards, like please, I don’t think this underdeveloped chest can take any more of this resentment or it’s going to explode through my ribcage, out of my flesh, like please, I don’t want to hurt anymore. And it’s not my fault that I launch myself around like I’m in some sick little competition, pretending I don’t care, like I’m having the time of my life. Of course I’m not, of course I’m not, I don’t think having your hands shake and your brain go fuzzy whenever you think a little too much is fun, something to be documented for the world to see. I guess I’m different from other people that way, I’d rather people think I’m having a good time than actually have one without anyone knowing. I wish I knew how to sew, so I could stitch up my fibrillating heart, no matter how sloppy and crooked, but the needle jabs my finger as the subway lurches left, and I bleed, I bleed, I bleed.
My mom told me not to walk naked in front of the altar. Disrespectful, she called it, and even though I agree, sometimes I test my divinity and emerge from the bathroom, the steam from the shower wafting off smoke like the incense in its pot. Young god, skin tinted green from fake gold. Young god, empty stomach, fruit scooped out of its rind, leaving me seedless. This hatred has roots, and I don’t know whether I want to dig out my insides with my hands or fill myself up until I’m close to bursting. I let people think the scratches on my knees are from a night of alcohol and a boy tugging my hair. Of course, it’s that and not child worship on a scratchy rug, not begging for forgiveness, not praying for glamour and glory, not hoping for. Of course it’s not hoping for something better.
If my husband, who has ALWAYS BEEN THERE FOR ME, and I got into a HUGE fight and then he was….just gone…but left his wallet, cell phone, and every other possession that meant something behind I would NOT assume he left me. And I don’t live in a town with magic and shapeshifting villains.
I don’t care what kind of abandonment issues you have - at least a flicker of worry should occur before you jump to the conclusion that the person who is missing just flat out left you forever.
Some possible why a Storybrooke character might be seen doing something unexpected:
Under a spell
Blackmailed by a villain
A villain has kidnapped them and is now masquerading as them
I mean all these things have actually happened in this show but we didn’t get to see Emma consider any of these possibilities. Nor did we see her saying anything about possibly pushing him away. all we saw on our screens was her saying that when as soon as things got tough he cowardly left her.
If Emma Swan was struggling with abandonment, or feelings of unworthiness it wasn’t conveyed in screen. If this is what we are supposed to believe then at least a few of the fourth five minutes of that episode should have dealt with that. But this was not conveyed in our screens.
What was conveyed was that Emma was sad, closed off, and not at all concerned that there might be some alternate reason the man who has time traveled, crossed realms, and DIED for her multiple times was missing. And neither was anyone else.
With Hook we at least got the explanation that he originally intended to leave because he needed to make himself a better man to be worthy of being with Emma. It’s shitty he didn’t convey that to her before he headed to the docks for sure (and I don’t accept any tweets by the writers as a fix for that). But as an audience we knew where he stood and that he wasn’t intending to break up with Emma. But the only evidence we have about what Emma was going through was her tears conversation with the bartender. That was an emotional moment for her - her walls were down. So we have to accept that as her canon feelings in the situation. And there was nothing there about her abandonment issues or fears. So people can meta about it all they like to explain away the shitty writing but what’s canon is canon. Emma shed like half a tear and expressed that their love must not have been as strong as she thought after all. And that it was time for her to move on. now the last bit feels in character to me - it’s a classic Emma move in terms of dealing with emotional pain. but not having faith in the love they had? I’m disappointed. Call it Emma hate if you like. I don’t really fucking care.
The writers have done her and her relationship with Hook a disservice with this story line.
and for me to buy into the two of them being ready to be MARRIED in just a few episodes it gonna take a hell of a lot of REAL conversation between the two that I honestly don’t expect the writers to deliver.
the reality is that it’s not the disgruntled fans who don’t love Emma - it’s the writers who don’t. They don’t let her grow. And they don’t spend time focusing on her emotional state with the depth that this type of story line for a main character calls for.
They’re all here for a reason, Liam’s not stupid. They all have
reasons to be in a safe house in the middle of Budapest, and here’s
proof. They might need to talk about it soon. Not now, though, when one
of them looks to be shaking apart at the seams.
They’ve all been so hurt, and they’re trying to piece themselves back together.