You can't hold it too tight, these matters of security. You don't have to be wound so tight, smoking on the balcony.

She hangs off the edge, if only to feel what it's like to fear for one moment. She knows nothing of the kind. She lacks the ability to fear anything. Yet, she is haunted.

She watches the loving that she wasted come raining down. However precious in the cosmic perspective, it all fades away. Her blue eyes wet, and following the speed in the starlight.

Layers of self-destruction stripped away under the light of the moon. She can read death's design in the stars. It's a Wednesday night on a balcony in the West Village. She sees it all ahead of her, everything she must do to get to where she must be.

Nothing holds a candle to these dreams of hers. No song, no spirit, no man. The dream is an insatiable need, everything else is unnecessary.

She hangs off the edge of the balcony, if only to feel again what it might be like to lose it all. And the feeling is all too familiar.

jacket by Stone Fox

leotard + body chain by Nasty Gal

heels by Melissa Shoes

photos by Jen Senn