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All alone

#Fokus auf Mann #barfuß #liegend #kurze Haare #Schwarze Haare #Narbe #Rückenlage #Blut #zerzaustes Haar #Schlüsselbein #Verletzung #schwarze Augen #Blick zum Betrachter #1 Junge #Ganzkörper #blutend #geschlossener Mund #Selbstverletzung #Selbstverletzungsnarbe

Veröffentlicht: Oct 26, 2026

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1boy, solo, male, moe, very skinny, short hair, black hair, messy short hair, half-closed eyes, tareme, faint closed-lip smile, blush, black tank top, small tank top, horizontal gray stripes, striped tank top, black shorts, bare arms, bare shoulders, bare legs, bare thighs, bare feet, bandages, ankle wraps, bandaged ankles, thigh gap, self-harm scars, scarred arms, scarred shoulders, scarred thighs, deep scars, bleeding scars, fresh blood, lying on back, on back, spread legs, knees apart, one knee raised, arms above head, arms spread on the floor, head tilted back, looking up, ceiling, from above, high angle, foreshortening, floor, tatami, soft daylight, single light source, window light The camera looks straight down from above the boy's chest, a high angle that foreshortens him along the tatami: he lies flat on his back on a worn pale tatami floor, short dark hair fanned out in loose strands around his head, chin tipped back so his throat and collarbones stretch and his half-lidded eyes drift up past the lens toward the ceiling rather than at the viewer, corners of his mouth pulled into a faint closed-lip smile, a soft blush sitting high on both cheeks. His arms are thrown loosely above his head, wrists slack, the long lines of both forearms upturned to the light with a dense lattice of deep healed scars crossing them in every direction, two or three of the newer cuts still wet and beaded with fresh blood that has run a little way over the skin and pooled in thin dark lines in the creases of his elbow pit. Deep old scars also break the skin across both shoulders where the tank top's straps leave them bare. The small black tank top with horizontal gray stripes hugs his very narrow chest and ribs, riding up so a sliver of flat stomach and one hipbone show, the striped hem curling at his waist above black shorts. The shorts are pulled low and loose; below them his legs fall open with the knees dropped apart, one knee bent and leaning outward, the other leg slid out straighter, baring the wide thigh gap between them and the deep, half-healed scars scored across the fronts and inner sides of both thighs, a couple of them still freshly bleeding in slow red threads. Bandages wrap tightly around both ankles, layered gauze wound just above the bone, the ends tucked and one tail hanging slack against the tatami. His feet rest open and relaxed, heels down, toes falling outward. Daylight is the only light: it comes in low and cool from a window off frame to one side, skimming across the striped fabric and the skin, throwing long soft shadows from his ribs, knees and the lifted knee onto the mats, picking out the wet shine of the fresh blood against the dry matte of the old scars. Palette is restrained: the pale straw of the tatami, the black and gray of the clothes, his pale skin, the muted red of blood. Quiet, fragile.

All alone

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