MG 0220

Dripping wet from a heavy reign, in love with the idea of you loving her starving soul, she tripped and fell in slo-o-o-w mo-o-o-tion. . .

You’d think she would have had time to catch herself, but she was hoping like hell you’d catch her instead. The feeling of hitting the hard ground is not unfamiliar, but no amount of familiarity reduces the friction.

A wry voice in the back of her head hisses “I told you so” and nothing else. For now.

Blonde model orange lipstick daisy dukes.

Blonde model reclining in tall grass in cut-off denim shorts and gladiator sandals.

Blonde model with orange lipstick and blue jewelry sits in tall grasses.

Blonde model fallen in grass with gladiator sandals.

The wind in my hair, the sway in my hips, the world at my feet.

Coping mechanisms might include hyper-sexual hypotheses, herbal-induced memory loss, carb-laden indulgences, and whatever else strokes the wounded ego. It’s not the right way but it’s the only way left while she charges her batteries and polishes her charm in anticipation of, well… whatever the hell comes next. Life goes on; she must go out and greet it lest it becomes the wolf snapping at her heels. She know this much.

Let me paint for you the picture of your lonesome goddess: body languid, as much at rest as in motion, and decorated in nothing more than a worn mesh bra (because underwire is for women with real tits) and a Houndstooth V-string thong, limbs slovenly draped over ‘vintage’ second-hand effects. Facial features are fixed in a pensive pout, vaguely aware of but unaffected by the haze billowing about in it’s byzantine fashion. Violently bored, white noise buzzes in the background alluding to some unfinished unbusiness, some distracting iDevice or tele-divisive contraption trying to seduce our unamused muse. Her loyalty lies, however, with whichever pretty thought she’s chasing behind her eyes in this intimate instance. In moments like these, she feels like she’s just on the verge of some grand unknowable truth, ever as evasive as wisps of divine smoke.

For now, all her designs are simplified by the sudden, quiet state of things. She knows she should be grateful for the release, and on some level she is, but it would seem she’s still in bittersweet mourning. Feels like self-sabotage spiked with wasted potential, yet she finds it as deliciously addictive as premium heroin.

Let there be no mistake, she’s keeping it all in perspective. She has so many blessings; the wind in her hair, the sway in her hips, the world at her feet. You can sum up everything there is to know about life in these three words: it goes on. Armed with a defiant grin and a denim jacket, she walks out on him to seek her Shangri-La.

Photography by Sonny Senser