What I first noticed were these deep eyes. They look like a child's or a beautiful doll's eyes. Shining with a hint of innocence. my second thought was, that they're red rimmed. so... was the doll crying? a doll with eyes, that can never sleep? a doll's eyes that fake life, that seem so real, as if they'd follow your every move, and yet they don't see a thing.
Do these eyes follow the shadows within the night's empty darkness, haunting whatever gazes upon them?
what else? there's no smile. no tears, no expression. dead. No hint of pain. Sure, falling asleep isn't painful, sure.
that's just exactly what you said, didn't you? that's what i think.
yet you wear a red dress, have red lips and red marks under your eyes, spilling red blood.
red. the color of blood, the color of lust, of passion, wrath and fire. you spill blood. your lips are full, a little reminder of the fact, that you are a woman. Women are associated with lust. Lust is associated with passion. on top of that, it takes some passion to point a knife at yourself. wrath... you're enraged that sleep won't come upon you. And fire... wasn't suicide - just what you're committing - a sin? Sin's are punished by the hell's fire.
so... your artwork contains a lot of black, but red is more prominent. still, black can be just the velvet night, but also so much more.
madness, reflecting in your eyes, your blade is rusted, looking black. a black curtain falls on the scene of your life, engulfed by depression and lifelessness.
the last color. white. sure, your skin is not white, but it's close enough, to make you look like a white doll. like a corpse, or simply like an angel in human disguise. like innocence, like purity.
Those eyes... They hold an utter despair, and yet have such an innocent depth. It's like she in-between memory and forgetfulness. Only beginning to realize the blade is biting her skin. Like a cry for help that never passes the lips because she knows there is none to be had. It seems almost Victorian in a way, a dark painting in a dark room. And yet all to real, those dark, dark eyes ever framed in white. Ever staring, ever trapped in this moment. Vicious hands, windows that lost the soul...