My entire adult life spent through selfies adorned with false smiles, vanity portraying the "best version" of myself.
My own body delusions still presented without filter, although masked.
Raw, vulnerable photographs through my weakest moments, tear strings, pink cheeks and red eyes aren't something I've felt comfortable posting.
However posed my photos are, they still aren't altered.
Playing up my own dysmorphic disorder from youth yet grasping my own beauty seen as overly vain.
Early youth Ex boyfriends told me selfies were extremely narcissistic, and made me seem rampant for attention.
But does a girl who has such little following still seek approval of others when they don't like photos?
I'm not sure.
My instagram feed is dull.
It's not uniform or beautifully choreographed.
I often hide photos, as I too enjoy hiding myself from time to time.
I intended on leaving an imprint of all these useless photos I've taken over the last decade. Physically I no longer share similar traits to younger versions of myself, though mentally I've changed overall time and time again. People have called me iron-clad, the strongest person they know.
But am I?
My body embellished with secrets of a personality I used to be too afraid of showing men until this fall.
How many basic accommodations I've missed out on, how my body soaks up the granules of this love.
My being is a season, wise in my own way and mystic in terms of value.
Windows beaming with warm midday sunlight, and crispy fall mornings.
Evolving rituals, moonglow and warmth. Certain darkness like still plotted night skies. Teetering vulnerability, and overstuffed closet.
Days less spent pining over lost dysfunction, and moreover trying to figure out who I have become.
Perceived destruction of oneself versus proverbial Phoenix reconditioning.
This winter's met with welcomed warmth though grazed heartache and sadness.
My dad died this month by suicide and I'm still trying to figure out up from down.