limitless source of brute force with measured amounts of self worth. I make believe in my anxious, hypersexual pseudo world. vindictive poles of manic depression: invisible but always there. I can’t breathe, I tremble, I hurt everywhere – soul, mind, body – dress up, I put on makeup, I wear my doll face – liar, deceiver,fake-

I wish my smile was the real thing on most days, not some counterfeit. from sky high to below ground- but extracting the middle (though mostly below)-is the life I’ve known. I’m a black rose made of metal, sharp edges cut my skin and I bleed. 

I wish I didn’t have to hide so much from people. or to swallow screams, absorb tears, silence thoughts. I wish I wasn’t so misrepresented by my own self. I wish I was the vibrant, beautiful, lovable, sexy woman I sometimes think I am (except beautiful but I’m pretty ) I wish I wasn’t the cold, disheveled, lunatic aberration I fight so hard to  isolate 24/7 (is THAT the real me? hope not). I wish I was a person with an illness and not an illness with a person. but wishes are not realities to work with. I take the harsh realities, create something different to survive – see what happens with undying curiosity- then continue. Wounded, bleeding, laughing, I fight this force of nature.

self portrait #24