I can’t tell you I love you in person, there’s too many reasons why I can’t.
Maybe one day I will muster the courage to do so.
But until that day, I write in riddles, send you love letters via instagram posts hoping you will read them and
know that they are for you.
(Love is a weird thing)
I wish you knew how loved you are, I wish you were brave enough to leave her.
Brave enough to venture out into the world.
I know you would love it, and it would love you back.
I’m yours, even if you are not mine.
I am yours.
I love you.
If I stay,
I do proclaim thyself as a gift,
A gift towards the heart of the earth.
Shoot with Boonyah and Risa
What happened to being an authentic human being? Having the ability to communicate openly with another person, no matter the cost. Being unafraid and actually saying,’You know what, I’m here and I’m going to do my best to love you. To be open with you. To share even the parts of myself that hurt.’ We all play games with one another; power struggles between two souls who are scared to really be honest. Does closing yourself off dull the pain in the present but enhance it for the future? Why is it so hard to just be real and present? Being vulnerable doesn’t make you weaker, it actually makes you braver.
“My pretty doesn’t concern you.
I just want to say it once so you know.
My pretty isn’t what women have fought for.
My pretty means nothing among the women who I call my friends.
My pretty or lack there of, is nothing of meaning, it holds no worth.
My pretty won’t pay the bills.
My pretty didn’t get me an education.
My pretty won’t comfort me at the end.
My pretty didn’t get me where I am.
My face is something to me because it is mine, all mine.
It makes me, me.
It’s not yours.
It never will be.
My pretty is secondary to my heart, to my humor, to my loyalty.
I never wrote in journals that I wanted to be pretty.
I never plotted out my career around my pretty.
I never got a job because of my pretty.
I never wanted to grow up to be pretty.
I never liked being called pretty, by my lovers or friends.
I’m a god damn vision.
I’m a wolf.
If you tell a wolf she’s pretty or not, she doesn’t care,
she’ll still rip out your throat and stand over your body.
Covered in blood, pretty was never a priority.”– Katharine Anne
I want to believe in love again.
A love that doesn’t have to end in betrayal.
That there are not only monsters hiding under the bed at night but angels too.
There are so many ways to hate you. Like the infinite amount of ways there were to love you.
Wash me clean, baptise me. I want to be renewed.
‘Save me!’ I cry. Speaking only to myself.
We are made of layers, cells, constellations – Anais Nin
Sometimes you just die, still loving someone.