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THE GLASS CHILD

CHARLOTTE ERIKSSON

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Author.  Songwriter. Dreamer. Wanderer.

THE GLASS CHILD

CHARLOTTE ERIKSSON

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Author.  Songwriter. Dreamer. Wanderer.

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.


Read more about the book here >>>


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