Fictional Collection 

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my features are undesireable on my face like undoing a piece of clay, as if every line and curve has been pressed and reshaped too many times. it feels like the original form has been lost beneath fingerprints and second guesses, leaving behind a surface that never quite settles into something that feels right. each glance in the mirror becomes another attempt to smooth, to fix, to erase, as though the face itself is a work in progress that never reaches completion, always one touch away from crumbling back into something formless and uncertain. there is a quiet exhaustion in this constant reworking, a tiredness that settles in the bones as the reflection shifts between almost and not quite. the skin feels like a mask that never fully adheres, slipping at the edges, revealing flaws that seem louder than any other part of the body. even in stillness, there is a sense of motion, of features rearranging themselves in the mind’s eye, never landing in a place that feels familiar or truly owned. it is like standing in front of a sculpture that was meant to resemble a person but stopped just short of recognition, leaving only the echo of what could have been. in that space between what is seen and what is imagined, doubt grows, curling into every perceived imperfection, turning the simple act of looking into a quiet, relentless unraveling.