I stopped taking pictures of myself as our conversations tapered off.
Never one to hide how I’m feeling, my face says it all,
reacting before I have a chance to cover up my blatant honesty.
These pictures I’d send you are strange and uncharacteristic.
They are static, unmoving, and unnatural.
My face is expressive, moving and intimidatingly curious.
It’s not something I’ve thoroughly enjoyed capturing for a moment,
not unless I can tell you why I stepped into that light there…
what I was thinking when I smirked.
Now I scroll through the photos on my phone and find only art.
Rows and rows of the work I’ve let myself become obsessed with.
It is a better depiction of me than a selfie could ever be.