these are not tears
A relationship ended and I felt bitter.
To spite the relationship and in spite of my own well being, I took up smoking again.
I hated the taste, and this ritual became a solitary performance of letting go, documenting distance traveled and time passed.
These temporary little sculptures were left in tribute.
To a self mutilation that was almost invisible, but nonetheless purposeful.
I don’t believe that performances need an audience to count.
Only that they be meaningful and moving to the person who is meaningful and moving.
This was about being alone.
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Initially intended to be posted to Instagram, this typology only exists here on this webpage. I have kept whatever duplicates exist from whatever glitch happened whenever.
