• Charlotte Eriksson

it could have been so beautiful


It could have been so beautiful.

The way I was too young for my age to run away 

but still did

because memories killed me like flashbacks,

shot straight in the dark

every night I passed that spot

on that street

like that night,

remembered so god damn well.

and it was disgusting and ugly,

his hands where they just should have not

been

but still,

it could have been so beautiful,

because it made me who I am.

Makes me who I am.


It could have been so beautiful.

The way our elbows always collide and not a single word was needed to make each other laugh. I laughed at your existence, I said, and you laughed even harder and that’s how we spent our time.

It could have been so beautiful,

the way the first hit felt good and something to deserve

because I’ve read every psychology book you can find on human behaviour and know for a fact that anger grows from caring

too much

and so it was a privilege to be in the war zone with someone like you.

How much you must have cared to hit that well

and that hard

and I remember saying thank you

and I’m sorry

at the same time

because what else is there to say. 


It could have been so beautiful.

The way I learned and got free and swore to never love another person 

ever again

and it could have been so beautiful

the way I actually did.

But winter came too soon 

and I grew smaller and we grew colder

and “I love you” got thrown around like habits

too rooted to give a damn

and it took a year

they say

for me to rid myself from habits rooted too deeply

and well

and still:

it could have been so beautiful.


There was a flower a found in the church after my grand mother’s funeral

this time

last year

and I took and kept it 

like a treasure hidden well.

I did not know why I stole it

and why I saw it or meant to keep it

but so I did

and now it’s August and I find myself sitting in a foreign land

again

drunk from too many thoughts and dreams

and memories hidden well

and there are certain moments when I can slowly work it out together.

Like dot to dot, tracing patterns on a map,

and it all makes sense but still absolutely not

because things could have been so beautiful

but just ended up being

not

but still 

they are,

because listen:


I am young and lost and know nothing about pain or love or anything in between

but what I do know is that I’ve seen things

I don’t wish for others to see,

and I’ve felt things

I don’t wish for others to feel,

and still I sit alive in a foreign city

thinking about someone,

wishing that the someone was here

and if there’s anything others have taught me it is that I don’t need them to make myself feel okay

but still I think of him

and his hands

and how he says my name

and that’s all I need

to know that 

I will be okay, after all.

I will be okay, in spite of it all.

See, ugliness is a fact

but beauty is a virtue

and I’ve seen it.

I see it

and know it

and will try to keep it

treasured like a secret at the bottom of the sea,

bottled up not to be taken for granted,

like

his hand in mine.

like his hand

in mine.

In spite of it all,

I am okay.


// from my book Another Vagabond Lost To Love

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. 

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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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