Peep hole

Ilva Heitmann by Columbine Goldsmith

{photo. via silverscents}

The frames scrape emotions long abandoned on the labyrinth of myself, deep seated and clinging to its rough walls. Sometimes I wipe it clean but some stains just won’t rub off.

If I ever have a self-portrait, it probably will look like this, in shadows and grainy light, hair unbound, pensive and distant.

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