THE GLASS CHILD

CHARLOTTE ERIKSSON

 

  • Instagram - White Circle
  • Twitter - White Circle
  • SoundCloud - White Circle
  • 6c4d6c_6a3cbd41bdca49b8b0e31b1854f6891f.png
  • Tumblr - White Circle
  • YouTube - White Circle
  • Facebook - White Circle
  • Amazon - White Circle
  • Pinterest - White Circle

Songwriter.  Author.  Dreamer. Wanderer.

  • Home

  • My Story

  • My Books

  • Store

  • House Concerts / Book Me

  • Podcast

  • Writing Tumblr

  • Workshops & Speaking

  • Selected Writings

  • VIP Fan Club

  • Reading List

  • Bio

  • Press

  • More

    • All Posts
    • You're Doing Just Fine
    • Another Vagabond Lost To Love
    • Everything Changed When I Forgave
    • night writings
    • Travel Writings
    • Favorite Writers
    • Empty Roads & Broken Bottles
    Search
    • Charlotte Eriksson
      • May 1, 2020

    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 will be a writer now

    • I am not a broken heart

    • Growing up is a wonderful thing to do

    • Another Vagabond Lost To Love

    Recent Posts

    See All

    Writing from The Road

    I would go places, they said, once.

    The Sweetest Rain

    Help me keep doing what I do

    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 ♥

    One-time donation
    Join & support me on Patreon

    CONTACT

    Booking & PR: lisa@brokenglassrecords.se

     

    I am currently taking bookings workshops and speaking engagements.

     

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

     

    contact@charlotteeriksson.com

     

    • Spotify - White Circle
    • Instagram Clean
    • Twitter Clean
    • YouTube Clean
    • Tumblr Clean
    • SoundCloud Clean
    • Pinterest - White Circle
    • Amazon - White Circle
    • Facebook Clean
    Listen to my podcast!
    Behind The Glass with Charlotte Eriksson
    172-1727421_podcast-subscribe-listen-but

    instagram feed

    • Instagram - Grey Circle

    MONTHLY LETTER OF

    THOUGHTS & INSPIRATION

    Sign up so I can let you in on my adventures, projects, 

    show you new music & share things that inspire me!

    Thank you ♡

    • Home

    • My Story

    • My Books

    • Store

    • House Concerts / Book Me

    • Podcast

    • Writing Tumblr

    • Workshops & Speaking

    • Selected Writings

    • VIP Fan Club

    • Reading List

    • Bio

    • Press

    • More

      Books Charlotte Eriksson.jpg
      Charlotte Eriksson Books

      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 ☾

      © Copyright 2021 Broken Glass Records

      www.BrokenGlassRecords.se