The unsaid bond between who I am and what I do destroys everything else in it's path. My passion is the punch you feel. My manichean splitting of creativity and craft. The more you talk, the less the words mean.
Our breakup phase of separate beds often resulted in one shared bed in some swanky hotel. Cold white sheets and room service. You empowered my ride or die disposition in ways I could not articulate into the tangible. You know both the character I create, and the person I am. And I think you're in love with both.
"Trust your work," you would say. It's intoxicating when someone is so unapologetic in their demeanor. Writing out things I want to manifest from the universe, but living them before the pen hits the paper. I am constantly creating myself over and over again.
St. John said, "Our lives are an eloquent expression of our beliefs." And I guess you were down with the way I lived mine. Apologizes from you in my DM, and I'm always down to let it go. It's not the snake-bite that kills you, but the venom that flows through your veins thereafter.
It's Saturday night, I'm about to be 25. I'm tucked up in a suite on west 53rd street filled with pink roses and designer clothes. The woman that delivered the first bottle of champagne said that Drake was just here last week.
Well I'm here now, and ready to fill the room with my crew. The ability to be exposed, to let go, and ride on your faults. You drift in, and swoop me.
Love or fascination, I don't know the difference.
"sex for breakfast" tee by Lovers + Drifters Club
pink + green flower bambi fur by Shrimps
yellow two-piece set by Moschino
track jacket by Diesel
japan jacket by topshop
cowboy boots by Jeremy Scott
photos by Jen Senn / as seen on Lady Gunn