Self Harm Art Novels & Stories

She said that it had been in the family for generations and it had ‘WORSHIP ME’ on the bottom of it. When I was in the future with future you, she said that she in fact painted that painting for her sister’s birthday and sent it to her without any kind of return address. There are lots of ways to express yourself and instead of turning all that violence that you feel onto yourself, why not paint it all out and use it to harass your abusive family, like you had already done. It can almost be like a diary or a memo of all the terrible things that they did to you and make them fear the consequences.”

lets shred the whole **** book, perhaps? lets set fire to the town, perhaps? im tired of pretending to be your precious child, perfect student, "the innocent one" i want to paint obscene material in your blood (in the name of art, of course) @god do you ever feel unreal? are you even real? am i? no i have to be real, I can feel the blood dripping down my arm, the bones cracking in my spine im real. im real. im real. everything hurts!!!!! **** i cant wait to rip you all to shreds !!!!!!

I can never escape the darkness. I tried to break these cycles of violence and despair, but it seems that no matter how hard I try, I am always drawn back into the abyss. I am sick, tired, and exhausted from the never-ending battle within myself. I stare at the dagger in my hand, its blade gleaming in the moonlight, a symbol of the pain and destruction I have caused. Sitting by the hill of corpses that I created, I sliced my skin open, hoping to release the inner torment that plagues me. The crimson droplets fall onto the ground, merging with the blood-soaked earth, a visual representation of the darkness that consumes my soul. But soon, just before the skin starts to heal itself, there is n

I couldn’t keep torturing myself like this. I turned away from the window, grabbed my hoodie and walked out of my room with one place on my mind: my place of safety—the art studio. When I was last there, I had felt the same way I was feeling now. Molding something in my hands and creating an art piece was like creating life for me. I was giving birth to artworks that breathed life into some and calmed the storms in others. The air had cooled and the night had gone darker. I pulled the hood of my hoodie all the way up over my head, and tucked my hands into the pockets of my sweats making sure to keep moving.

Austin drove away from Sara. He couldn't dispel the vision of her sobbing alone on the quiet road. He had been so enraged that he hadn't paused to consider how his words and deeds could hurt her. He couldn't stop but ponder whether she was safe. What if something happened to her? What if she lost? He felt guilty. He was aware that under pressure, he had a propensity to strike out and frequently came to regret his words and acts afterwards. He considered how he had just abandoned her vulnerable on a lonely road. What kind of man does that?

Just truth. The studio, once a haven for polished art and refined aesthetics, had transformed into a space where raw emotions and unfiltered expressions found a home. The walls, once pristine and white, now bore the marks of countless visitors who had come to share their truths. Each mark was a testament to the human experience, a glimpse into the depths of the soul that often remained hidden beneath layers of societal expectations and personal insecurities. Jo and Franc began a series of pieces—each one raw, unfinished, and deliberately unpolished. Their work was a reflection of the studio’s new ethos, a celebration of imperfection and authenticity.

If anything, her divorce was good for her art. A self-portrait of her crying was mounted on the wall encased in a stark black wooden frame. Her lips painted an angry red, mascara streaking down her cheeks and the clear despair on her features clearly depicted the title betrayed. Then the self-portrait immediately next to it with rage, her features narrowed, fierce and vengeful was entitled Scorned. She didn't put out such vulnerable work in years and letting her very real emotions to be viewed by the word was excruciating yet cathartic.

I breathed. It was better than crying. One message. Then three. Then fifteen. In under a week, my phone became a nerve-ending of pings, vibrations, and blinking screens. It was the painting “Safe Space” that did it—shared by an anonymous account with a large following. The caption read: “When survival turns into art.” Suddenly, everyone wanted to know who I was.

“When I was younger, bouncing between foster homes, I got tattoos to feel in control. To mark myself as changed, different, better. But the ink didn’t fix anything. I just carried the same pain under prettier skin.” “What did fix it?” she asked quietly. “Time. Therapy. Actually dealing with my shit instead of just decorating over it.” I wiped away excess ink. “And art. Real art, not just tattoos. Painting let me process everything I’d buried.” “Is that why you have this shop? To help other people process?” “Maybe.” I’d never thought of it that way before. “Or maybe I just like stabbing people for money.” She laughed, surprising us both, and the sound did something dangerous to my chest.

The fear of not being where I'm supposed to be and the strong guilt of not doing the right things and watching my family die from it begins to creep up on me again. I feel like I'm falling into the same loop that took me so much therapy to get over. Maybe some other people will appreciate my efforts. I look up at the Art on the wall opposite my bed. It's one where a black woman who is pregnant, places a moulded jug on her head and carries a baby girl on her side.