• Charlotte Eriksson

I am not a broken heart



I am not a broken heart. 

I am not collarbones or drunken letters never sent. I am not the way I leave or left or didn’t know how to handle anything at any time, and I am not your fault.


I found a small spark by the end of the tunnel I built around us and I ran as fast as I could with the breath in my throat, scared like hell to lose sight of the only light I’d seen since you left.


You were the hardest year of my life and I’ve never been so happy. What does that say about me?


I was never afraid of the dark and I spent my youth walking through empty playgrounds at midnight, worried mothers telling girls to be careful and “the world is an ugly place and not everyone wants you well”. But I was not afraid, and I wished for adrenaline to make my veins pulsate in that way that puts them more on the outside of my skin than inside. After the first night with you I never walked alone at night again because suddenly I had something to lose. Something to save.


I am slowly trying hard to blur out the last months because they’re ugly and I don’t want us to be the evidence of how easy it is for heaven to turn into hell so I try to recall the beginning. The early mornings waking up before the dawn. The pink sky and the way you loved the view of the rooftops while the world was still asleep. Or when we were too far apart for even a day and so the text waking me up, every day a floaty thing I never wanted to leave and I was not worried.


I lied, which I often do, because truth is a privilege you never earned and you turned cold and unkind and I just wanted to do you well. Because I’ve never done anyone well before or cared about anyone being well in the same way I cared about you. I just wanted to do you well even though you never did me well. I lied. I hate who I became when I was with you.


So I am not a broken heart.  I am not the weight I lost or miles I ran and I am not the way I slept on my doorstep under the bare sky in smell of tears and whiskey because my apartment was empty and if I were to be this empty I wanted something solid to sleep on. Like concrete.  I am not this year and I am not your fault. I am muscles building cells, a little every day, because they broke that day. But bones are stronger once they heal and I am smiling to the bus driver and replacing my groceries once a week and I am not sitting for hours in the shower anymore.  I am the way a life unfolds and blooms and seasons come and go and I am the way the spring always finds a way to turn even the coldest winter into a field of green and flowers and new life.  I am not your fault.


// from my book You're Doing Just Fine

Read more about the book here >>>




Some more of my writings:

I’m a completely independent artist, living all by myself with no other support than yours. If you find any comfort or hope in what I do, my music or my writings, please consider supporting me, in order to be able to keep doing this. To keep learning, creating, growing and sharing what I learn. Everything matters, between a coffee to a donation for my next album. 

I'm nothing alone 

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Booking & PR: lisa@brokenglassrecords.se

 

I am currently taking bookings for solo shows, house concerts, workshops and speaking engagements.

 

Interested in hosting a house concert? Just write to me and we'll plan it together!

 

contact@charlotteeriksson.com

 

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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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