I miss the girl I almost was. She sits lightly on the edge of the bed at 4am and brushes my hair back from my face with a touch like spiders' footsteps. Her breath is like ice and her wishes are weightless. She wraps a strand of promises around her fingers and kisses me goodbye again with lips like polished crystal. She waits for me at crossroads. She is always cold.

Self-portrait in the studio. I heart floaty fabric, coloured light and creepy masks.