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Cut my wrist and slit my throat

So far everywhere

#stehend #Zwinkern #kurze Haare #Schwarze Haare #Lächeln #Blut #Tanktop #Shorts #Verletzung #schwarze Augen #1 Junge #blutend #Haare zwischen den Augen

Veröffentlicht: Oct 26, 2026

Lolii

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1boy, solo, short hair, messy hair, black hair, boy, moe, large eyes, tank top, black tank top, striped shirt, horizontal stripes, grey stripes, black shorts, bare arms, bare shoulders, bare legs, thigh gap, deep scars, scar on arm, scar on shoulder, scar on thigh, bleeding, blood, wounded, fresh blood, dripping blood, standing, contrapposto, from above, looking up, looking at viewer, head tilt, light smile, one eye closed, arms behind back, leaning forward, dutch angle, cowboy shot, indoor, empty room, concrete floor, harsh overhead light Shot from above and slightly to the side, tilted a few degrees into a dutch angle so the vertical stripes ride a diagonal: a moe-styled boy stands alone in an empty concrete-floored room, filling the lower two-thirds of a vertical frame in a cowboy shot cropped at mid-thigh and just above the crown. He is caught mid-lean, tipped forward toward the lens from the waist with both hands clasped behind his back, his chin lifted to meet the high camera, one eye squeezed shut in a lopsided wince of a smile while the other stays open and fixed directly on the viewer. His weight rides on his left leg, hip cocked out to that side and knee relaxed, while his right leg is planted a foot or so apart and turned slightly inward at the foot, so a clean, unbroken wedge of space — his thigh gap — opens between his thighs below the hem of the shorts. The pose brings the shoulders and the whole sweep of both arms into view: bare arms with no sleeves to cover them, and the cropped tank top's narrow straps leave the shoulders exposed. His short, messy hair is cut close at the nape and falls in ragged points over the brow on one side, disturbed by the little upward toss of his head so a couple of strands flick clear of his face. The black tank top is cut small and close, thin shoulder straps, with grey stripes running horizontally across the chest — because he leans forward and the camera looks down, those grey bands curve and compress slightly over the front of the ribcage, riding the fabric's fold rather than lying flat. The black shorts are short enough to clear mid-thigh, and the open stance pulls the inner hems taut against the upper leg. No other garment, no sleeves, no socks, no jewellery — hair completely unadorned, both ears bare, nothing at the throat above the scoop of the tank's collar. The scars are the picture's real detail budget, and the camera's high angle is what exposes them all at once. On the arms they come in long stacked bars down the outer forearm and across the inner elbow, some pale and healed and ridged, others newer and dark red, a couple of the freshest split open and still weeping slow beads of red that gather and run down the inside of the forearm toward the wrist, one of them tracking to the point of the elbow. Across the shoulders they show as a crosshatch of raised, silvered lines over the deltoid and the top of the shoulder blade with a few redder, more recent cuts at the joint. On the thighs, in the open space between the legs, the gashes are longest and heaviest — parallel tracks climbing the front and inner thigh, deepened by the downward light into shadowed grooves, with the newest cuts at the inner thigh rim still wet and standing in small full droplets. A single drip has already pulled free and sits on the concrete between his feet: a tiny, perfect, dark-red circle, glossy at its centre and matte where it has started to soak into the porous floor — the one detail that measures how still he's been standing. The light is a single hard overhead source, exclusive, dropping almost straight down: his hair catches a bright rim along the crown, the shadows nest under the brow, under the chin, beneath both heels, and deep in the furrow of every scar, and the short shadow he casts falls almost exactly under him, tight and dark. The room is bare pale grey concrete on every side, the floor and the far wall the only texture; the upper corners of the frame sit in the falloff of the lamp, sinking gently darker, and the deep palette is held to black, grey and the small hot reds of the blood. Cool, precise cel shading with fine linework. Quiet unease.

Cut my wrist and slit my throat

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