Some women…

Some women are meant to wear heels.

Louboutins with flashy red soles. Propelled high and mighty, looking down upon the rest of us with a posh distain, all coolness and sophistication.

Some women were made for suits.

Tailored to show a silhouette so different from the men that surround them. A confident, classy force to be reckoned with. Taut legs under panty hose and pencil skirts, sharp eyes beneath contemporary glasses frames.

Some women are fit for evening gowns.

All beautiful collarbones and shoulders. Sparkles at their wrists and throats. Necks that beg to be kissed, backless wonders that dare you to touch. All coy and elegant class, smoldering glances from beneath long black lashes; bitten red lips.

Still others belong in t-shirts and jeans.

Casual and cute. A clean sexiness that begs for a kiss and hands to wrap around their waits. Slim hips and long legs, tanned and freckled skin, windswept hair and a laugh that leaves you smiling.

I’m one that belongs in men’s shirts.

Soft, old t-shirts, with holes from so much wear. Oversized dress shirts that fit like dresses, that make me feel tiny and cozy. Sweatshirts with sleeves that are too long, that I curl my hands into. Something that makes me feel safe and warm. Secure and loved. There’s a certain sexiness to wearing his shirt and nothing else. An excitement and an implication, a sense of belonging and ownership. Bed-ruffled hair and over-kissed lips. I feel as if I could snuggle in a king-sized bed all day. Little secrets, little kisses, spooning and snuggling and picking lint off of the blankets. Eating cereal and watching old movies. Dancing around the room, having tickle fights. Those are the only accessories I need to my wardrobe. 

There’s nothing poetic about breaking someone’s heart.

When your own heart is broken, you can spin the pain into stories and sonnets, express it in photographs and paintings, your words become eloquent, and your thoughts become wistful. It’s stretched and doubled and expanded, spun into delicate tendrils of a pain that become sugary sweet and quietly overwhelm those who see or hear of it.

But when you break someone’s heart, there is nothing to be said about it. You can’t do anything but stand with your arms crossed over your chest, mouthing, “I’m sorry.” As if that could make it better. There’s something embarrassing about witnessing another’s tears, knowing that you have caused them. Something shameful and ugly. 

I’ve gone too long without writing. 

My thoughts are poisoning me. It’s like a sickness in my blood. A cancer in my bones.

Looking at someone through a camera is quite dishonest, really. You’re asking them to lay bare their soul, expose their heart through their eyes; and the curve of their mouth; the arch of their brows; the delicacy of their fingers. You’re preserving that moment, that emotion. You’re asking them to be naked. Meanwhile, you’re hiding behind the lens. They can’t read anything about you, or see into you at all. The muse gives everything to a cold master.

I want to put honesty back into the photos. If you’re lucky—if you’re good—you can capture a bit of honesty in your subject. A moment when they bring their guard down, and you catch a glimpse of them when they’re not acting for you. But I also want to put a bit of the artist into the picture. Show the subject as I really see them. Show that there is someone in front of the camera—and someone behind it. That’s the part that’s missing. That’s the Great Lie.

I think photography is kind of lying. Because you’re asking the subject to do something that you yourself cannot do. 

I put up this front, so that other people will see me as I want to be seen. Charming or witty or aloof or smart - whatever the situation calls for. But it’ s dishonest of me, really. And I feel like I’ m living life in my head more than I’ m actually living it. And everything is like a goddamn book or movie to me. Everyone says the lines that are assigned to them, and there are moments of fragile beauty, and the characters all have lovely, tragic personalities.

But reality is a lot less poetic than that.