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  • Charlotte Eriksson
    • Jan 7

i’m not trying to be cute, i’m trying to be honest.

i’m not trying to be cute, i’m trying to be honest.

i said that to a boy i was writing a song with the other day but he seemed to prefer something cute than honest

blah blah

i just find it tiring. pretty things everywhere singing cute things, like,

i’d rather tell you a truth that is ugly and dirty

then a lie that would make me cute.


i don’t think i’m really happy yet and sometimes i think money will make me happy but does no money really make me unhappy?

sometimes i want to become something that no one thinks is cool

so i could become really great at it and be the best at something and i wouldn’t really care that no one thinks it’s cool because i would be great at it.


i don’t need people to see me anymore. i can play you my music, but i don’t need you to like it. i don’t need you to read my words or watch my speeches. i just want to do it. whatever. I can be something else but i’m gonna keep writing anyway.


can you become really really great at something if you don’t need anyone else to think you’re really really great?

like, i want to be a really really great writer, but i don’t need you to agree with me.

do you think Bukowski cared? do you think Anaïs Nin would have stoped writing her diary if someone told her she’s not a good writer? or Petrarch, do you think he would have stopped writing his 366 sonnets, to write himself out of heartbreak, if someone told him he had no future career as a writer?

No, he wrote cause he needed to and that’s the only reason he’s studied and researched in every literature course on the planet 646 years after his death.


Yeah, i do this. learn meaningless details about great writers because i find them great and think maybe one day i can be one of them. write something really really great and be studied by people who prefer something honest than pretty.


i don’t think very many pretty things make me feel a lot but the truth always does. i also don’t think i’m really very happy yet but writing always made things better. it won’t make me any money but does no money really make me unhappy if i at least can write every day?


i think i’ll be happier writing with no money than not writing with a lot of money.


_______


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5am
again,
drunk on someone else’s love,
or couch,
and I’ve never felt more at home.

​

I fled myself,
from the life I’ve built
because I’ve been inhabiting routines I don’t want to stand for.

Inhabiting skin I’d rather shed
but still took on
like a soldier serving his country,
for that’s what they told me to do.
But I was not
strong
or wise,
but young and foolish,
for what is this thing? Trading passions for a tiny bit of acceptance,

and I am not a Sunday morning inside four walls
with clean blood
and organised drawers.
I am the hurricane setting fire to the forests
at night when no one else is alive,
or awake,
however you choose to see it,
and I live in my own flames.
Sometimes burning too bright and too wild
to make things last 
or handle
myself or anyone else
and so I run.
Run run run,
far and wide
until my bones ache and lungs split
and it feels good.
Hear that, people? It feels good,
because I am the slave and ruler of my own body
and I wish to do with it exactly as I please,
and living in this skin is hard and painful, most of the times,

because I never volunteered to take this on.

The daily sacrifice of heart over mind,
the forever on going task of explaining this and that,
and why I don’t want to look like this and
be like that
but still here I am and if this is the body I’ve been given I’m sure as hell gonna make it work.
If this is the place I’ve been given, I’m sure as hell gonna make this work.

​

So I fled the me that was never really me and I’m on my way. To newer lands and uncleaned streets
for I’ve had enough of childish safety in comfort.
Enough of all telling me to look and do, like this and that,

and I never meant to please anyone but myself
and you can call me selfish,
throw words like knives in the dark but I will not listen,
for not listening to sharp words brought me to where I am today
and I believe in the path I’ve been given. If my only task in this life is to walk it,
I surely will walk it
prouder than anyone else.

​

If this is the path I’ve been given, I will walk it
prouder than anyone else,
for no one else can.

​

// from my book You’re Doing Just Fine ☾

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