I photographed this at a hillbilly flea market.
They reminded me of something.

The history of my love life.
All my past loves. Discarded. Damaged.

Too many years spent reckless with the hearts of others. They lay there like the contents of a can of Pringles; all white, slightly warped, some already broken.

The Guilt is always with me. Did I leave them this way? Or would the ups and downs of Life have done this to them without my help?

I anguish, vowing to never add another body to that pile – Love’s funeral pyre.

Is my Love today less dysfunctional, more mature? Lessons learned on the broken backs of a hundred Barbies?