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Cut my head off

I love it so much it hurts

#stehend #Bauchnabel #kurze Haare #Im Freien #Graue Haare #Lächeln #Blut #Tanktop #Shorts #Verletzung #nackte Schultern #Blick zum Betrachter #Ganzkörper #sehr kurze Haare #blutend #Handgelenke ritzen #Selbstverletzung #Selbstverletzungsnarbe

Veröffentlicht: Oct 26, 2026

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1boy, solo, moe anime boy, short hair, very skinny, slender, male, black tank top, camisole, horizontal gray stripes, striped shirt, small shirt, black shorts, thigh gap, bandages, bandaged ankles, ankle wrap, scar, self-harm scars, deep scars, scarred arms, scarred shoulders, scarred thighs, bleeding, blood drip, bandaged thigh, standing, from below, looking down, dutch angle, leaning forward, hand on own arm, head tilt, half-closed eyes, tareme, light smile, puffy cheeks, outdoors, night, alley, chain-link fence, concrete wall, single light source, cool palette, Three-quarter view from a low angle, tilted a few degrees off level, so the boy's slight frame towers and the sky-dark gap above his head does the framing work. He stands close to a chain-link fence on his right, weight sunk into his left hip, right knee loose and turned inward, one bare foot flat and the other propped on tiptoe; both ankles disappear under tight bands of off-white medical wrap that crease where the heel tendon cuts beneath them. His black tank top is cut skimpy, the hem riding above his navel, and three gray stripes run level across the chest and bunch slightly where the shoulder seams pull wide; below it, short black shorts sit low on his hips. Because he is very skinny, the shorts' inner seams hang loose and a clean sliver of thigh gap shows between them, bandage wrap crossing the upper thigh where fresh cuts have been dressed. His arms hang almost straight, elbows softly bent, and the right hand rests across his left forearm, fingertips pressed lightly into a bandage that hasn't quite stopped bleeding; a slow thin line of red has broken past the gauze edge and run a joint's length down the wrist. Deep, old, pale-ridged scars climb both forearms and slash over the caps of his shoulders where the tank straps slide aside, and newer cuts, still wet and dark, sit among them. His short hair is fine and uneven, sticking up a little at the crown, and a tuft of it hangs over his right brow. He looks down at the viewer from under half-lowered lashes with a soft, faintly amused closed-lip smile and one cheek rounded out; his head is tilted toward his left shoulder, his eyes sliding just off to the side rather than straight into the lens. The only light is a streetlamp behind and above his right shoulder, so it rims the fine hair and the edge of the striped top with cold white, strikes the weave of the ankle bandages and the wet shine of the fresh cuts, and leaves the fence and the concrete wall behind him a flat dark mass; his own long shadow falls toward the viewer. Cool blue-green night air, pinkish warmth creeping into the lit skin, everything else sunk in near-black. Quietly tender, faintly unsettling.

Cut my head off

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