She's Too Pretty to Burn

by Wendy Heard

Art, like nature, has her monsters. —Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

“This is what you look like. I wanted you to see. Even if it means you hate me now. You’re so beautiful. You don’t have to hide.”

“Why are you apologizing when you didn’t do anything wrong? That’s something we teach girls to do—always apologize, never be a burden. You have a right to take up space.”

I placed my hand on the back of her tangled, sea-wet head. She was so many layers. One layer was sweet and shy. The next layer was dark and unpredictable. Under that, a layer of kindness and softness, and under that, a layer of fierce dominance. She was the ocean, with its riptides and its soft, clean breeze and its beauty and its chilling, shark-filled depths. “I could fall in love with you,” I realized aloud. The firelight flickered in the sky like Halloween.

She was made to be photographed by me. I was made to photograph her.

I never thought much about birds, but now I think—I’d love to be one. Imagine the freedom of movement. They’re living in three dimensions while the rest of us are pinned flat to the earth.

I’m so glad I didn’t melt you down with steel and turn you into a lifeless, shining doll. What a waste that would have been. You’re too pretty to burn.