barely here.

shooka3shooka9 shooka8 shooka7 shooka4

2000 miles away, there’s your faint gaze. I rub my eyes, I swear you were only an arm’s length away a minute ago. That distant kind of love. That woozy kind of love. Empty and safe – a haven without a roof.

I make my way around the room. I look back. I beg to meet your eyes. I always did hope you’d notice, even the things you didn’t want to see. But your eyes, always milky and calm, oblivious to it all.

Your cold breath mutters a string of broken words that continue to shatter, over and over again, until a few disconnected pieces make it to my ear. Your bloodless skin, pale and cold. I never felt so small. Neither threatening nor threatened, like a white wall, you’re barely here.

You say I love you, I smile, and the sky seems to close on us both.

xx

Vintage clothing & accessories,
styling & photos by Justin Markin

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vacancy

motel bloggersmot010motel bloggersmotel jumpermotel clothingmotel clothingmotel jumpermotel jumper

at the end of it all
it’s me –
sitting cross legged, hunched over on a cold bed
dizzy
from walking in circles around myself
looking for a vacancy

xx

JUMPSUIT by Motel

Photos by Cachet Retsos

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thirsty crow

tobi clothingtobi clothing tobitobi clothingtobi tobitobi clothing

i’m a stained cloth
chasing the next high
i’m a thirsty crow
looking for a place to belong

my tea
as black as it comes
I’m chain smoking
stirring my blessings in a cup

xx

LENNON FLARED PANTS by Tobi
DINA CROPPED TOP by Tobi

Photos by Rachel Lynch

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sunrise, sunset.

Rosina Mae Rosina Mae Rosina MaeRosina MaeRosina MaeRosina MaeRosina Mae

She was his sunrise, his sunset. He opened his eyes every morning to a shimmery pattern of light peaking through the lace curtains, dancing its way from the top of her forehead to the edges of her lips. She was always smiling, even in her sleep. She had a glow to her face, even on those torrential rainy nights that translated into gloomy mornings.

They had a little yellow house on the beach. Not too big, not too small. They didn’t have a lot of furniture, just a couch and a coffee table. A big white bed in their ocean-facing bedroom. The rest of the space was covered floor to ceiling in art they had collected throughout their travels over the years – Greece, Italy, Thailand, India. Her face lit up every time a guest would ask about the art – she’d jump up at the chance to explain every little memory behind every little piece of art. His face also lit up, watching her proudly show off what they had collected together.

She was his sunrise, his sunset. Of all the art in their house, the ones he made for her were her favorite. Just before sunset every night, they’d walk hand in hand on the beach, scanning the glistening shoreline for seashells. She believed that the seashells have a special kind of energy right around sunset. She said they come out of hiding. They want to be seen. They’d collect only the best ones to bring back to their beach house. Then he’d sit on a lawn chair in their garage with the door open, with buckets of shells surrounding his feet. He would glue seashells in the most mesmerizing patterns onto everything imaginable – picture frames, vases, sculptures. She’d bring out a tray of tea to the garage. They’d sit side by side, sipping on tea, and smiling at the moon that seemed to always be smiling back at them.

The sunrise, the sunset. It wasn’t always a kind routine. The ocean, despite the generosity of the sun, held its shine captive all night until the morning. The sun, despite its tiresome battle with the ocean, peaked through the horizon every morning without a complaint.

She was his sunrise, his sunset. But on this particular day the sun and the sea were too wrapped up in their own battles to be on his side.

That day, he lost his wife to the sea. That was 17 years ago. Since that cold morning – as they separated when she went to wash up in the ocean and he went on his daily walk on the beach – he’s spent every waking moment backtracking what could’ve happened, what should’ve happened. Why did this happen?

She was his sunrise, his sunset. His seashell art surrounds his lonely house, inside and out. Her picture frames, covered in shells. The bedroom they slept in, kept untouched. He sleeps in a different room now. His sunrise, his sunset, gone. Her glow, reflecting off her beautiful face in every shell covered frame.

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xx

based on a true story.

BATHING SUIT BOTTOM by Rosina Mae

Photos by Cachet

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hostage.

boohoo clothingboohoo clothingboohoo clothingboohoo clothingboohoo clothingboohoo clothingboohoo shoes

you’re a light dimmer
clenching,
holding hostage,
my wings.

xx

JACKET, ONESIE, SHORTS & SHOES by Boohoo
SUNGLASSES by ZeroUV

Photos by Tyke Riggs

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different places.

rare london rare london clothing rare london clothing rare london rare london rare london rare london rare london rare london public desire boots

i’m sleeping in different places all the time now. my 4 walls have come off as restricting as of late, suffocating even. it’s not their fault. together, they reserve this cube for me to come back to. but in this exact cube is where my anxiety scatters through the atmosphere. like smoke trapped in a jar, it will take the form of its container, but it’ll escape the moment it’s given the chance.

i’m in a casual relationship with reality. i put a match to my skin. i put myself through fire just to feel a glimpse of warmth. i write pages of non sense in a dark motel parking lot. i sneak into mansions. i drive from border to border – flat land becomes mountains, yellow becomes green, the sky opens. “describe it to me,” you said, “tell me the colors of the sky.” but you’re just as strong as the sun – i can’t avoid you but i can’t look directly at you. i guess some of us want closeness but some of us fear it. i’m realizing i’m the latter.

xx

BLUE VELVET PLAYSUIT by Rare London
BLACK SUEDE THIGH HIGH BOOTS by Public Desire
SUNGLASSES by ZeroUV

Photos by Cachet

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her/self.

long clothinglong clothinglong clothinglong clothing long clothinglong clothing

i’m the kind of rebel who
goes back to
save her victim
from her
self.

TOP by Long Clothing

Photos by Jonathan Fasulo 

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