Will you love me in the winter, when I’m as brittle as these barren, naked trees? When the summers gone, will you love me for who I am in my bones underneath?
Photography by Abigail Saturday
Will you love me in the winter, when I’m as brittle as these barren, naked trees? When the summers gone, will you love me for who I am in my bones underneath?
Photography by Abigail Saturday
It will always hurt to look at you. But, with time, I shall learn to avert my eyes.
Self-portrait
If I wrote it down on paper, would that remove it from my chest?
If I forgot all the bad parts, would it diminish all the rest?
If I walked away with my heart, would you believe that I wished you all the best?
Photography by Abigail Saturday
I never did ask if you loved me, too.
There was one thing I already knew.
You wouldn’t choose me.
You'd leave me behind.
So neither answer, would grant me peace of mind.
Self-portrait
Seeing her for the first time was like reading the opening line of a good book. I couldn't put my finger on it, but there was something about her, something captivating, something devastating that reached inside of me and planted roots. There was something extraordinary hidden away in the lines around her eyes and the freckles that dotted the tops of her shoulders. Like words on a page, she was made of ordinary things, of curves and curls and brightly colored eyes. Like a book, she consisted of nouns and adjectives, but she was strung together like poetry.
She wore her smile like a mask, a cover, but her eyes spoke of stories. Her spine was rigid and straight, proud and confident. And though it looked smooth, her skin was weathered and worn, like she had lived or been loved a little too harshly or held by one too many uncaring hands. An ethereal air hung around her like an aura, like she was filled with more stories than any one book should hold.
I felt compelled to learn her page by page, to uncover how her laughter could be so bright while she wore a smile that sagged at the edges. But I knew by the way adventure bled from the green of her eyes that she never sat still long enough to collect dust. And as she smiled and then promptly looked away, I had the sinking feeling that knowing her would be like reading the last line in my favorite book- bitter and beautiful and the kind of memory that leaves fingerprints on your soul.
Photography by Abigail Saturday
Broken trust isn’t like a bridge. It cannot be rebuilt, good as new. It’s more like ripped skin. Even after it heals, there will always be a scar.
Self-portrait
All change is but a phase. Show me a permanent state of self and I will show you a mind that is closed.
Photography by Richard Andrews
In the darkness, there was a feeling I would chase.
I slipped between the pages, to a cold and quiet place.
The stillness seemed to swallow me, a lonely lover’s embrace.
I could be myself there, in the safety of a vast and empty space.
Self-portrait
I took a deep breath and let them go- all the things I cannot change, all the people who couldn’t stay, all the thoughts that suffocated me. I exhaled what was heavy and gave myself room to grow.
Photography by Scott Rust
I don’t know why I call. Sometimes I hang up before it even begins to ring. Sometimes I tell myself this is for the best. Sometimes I tear myself apart. But one day I won’t call you anymore, and you will wait by the phone, wondering where I am and why the hell you ever let me go.
Photography by Boris Mirkin