Category: Writing (Page 1 of 2)

It always ends this way – Wallpaper

It’s about being torn. Torn between two cities. Torn between moving or staying. Taking the job or not. Committing or not. Taking the leap or not. 

Not all things are this hard. Many things are simply just black and white. An easy decision for one person may be life changing for the next. 

This was what made me move abroad to start with, the realisation that if I didn’t, something deep inside me would die. It had been a dream for so long to move abroad to an English speaking country. I kept talking about it and never dared to think about it seriously. I had too much keeping me back. But finally I couldn’t bear the thought of the dream dying, the one I’d carried around in my chest for so long. I knew that it would torture me not to go, not to live that dream. I knew that at the end of my life I’d be so disappointed if I never even tried. I weighed the losses, the things I could bear and the things I could not and I made the choice. I knew that the decision to leave would kill something else inside of me. Sometimes choices are like that. Bittersweet, where the pay-off always has a little hint of sorrow. 

040319 stay

It will always end this way

something dies if you leave
and something dies if you stay

210718 summer

It’s 1 am, the sun almost on its way back up behind the treetops. The sky looks almost chrome on the horizon. It takes just a few minutes to adjust the eyes to the dark. Walking along the path down to the water is easier with the torch off, it’s almost scarier to keep it on, the light is blinding to the point where you can’t make out anything that’s hiding in the dark.

The water is almost completely still. A house across the bay has the porch light on, it cuts through the dark all the way to the pier. The air has cooled down from the day time temperature of 30ºc. We estimate it to be 24ºc.

The mirror surface of the water is broken by my brother diving in head first. He gasps as he resurfaces and then dive under again. Like a seal he swims and is suddenly much further out. All at once the rest of us follow him.

I’ve developed a fear of bodies of water, but I struggle against it. The depths seem even deeper and darker in the night. I swim close to the rest, thinking if something grabs me it will grab them too. We stop further out, the silence only broken by the rippling water moved by our swim strokes. I tread water to keep me afloat, then fold my legs up to keep my feet from touching the seaweed.

I stretch my body out on the surface, relaxing my limbs to stay afloat. The water blocks my ears and I close my eyes for a few moments. The silence is as numbing on my mind like the cold water is on my body. It’s a rare moment of complete peace, that fleets as my legs slowly sink towards the depths, but it’s enough to weigh up for several weeks of stress and worry.

This is the moment I refer to in the midst of February, when I say I miss summer.



110718 tired

My eyes are swollen from sleep. My alarm keeps ringing and I absentmindedly keep shutting it off for over an hour. I bolt out of bed, spend too long in the shower but still calmly walk back upstairs. Mom comes knocking with an iced coffee. The ice cubes ping against the rim of the blue glass. I dab my face with my damp make up sponge, pressing it against my eyelids, forcing the swelling down. I’m late for the bus and while I brush my teeth mom pours the rest of my coffee into a take away mug. Running out the door, I take a sip, careful not to spill on the white T-shirt I’ve just stolen out of her wardrobe.

I’ve been home for a week. It’s the dead of summer. I tell myself that I got a tan last week, but in reality all the colour I got in the last weeks is from a bottle. Every four days I’ve applied the tropically scented mousse in circular motions across my skin. It makes me feel better about myself for some reason. I leave white patches where my bikini is supposed to be, just to further fool myself into thinking I got a proper summer this year. I force myself to get through, to grasp on to all the little tiny glimpses of summer. Taking note of anything that makes me feel present. Trying not to think of the things that are to come in september.
“Just another year” I chant to myself in my head. Just another year.

In the afternoons, after locking up the air conditioned office, I step out into the sun and jog to the bus. I finish at 5 and the bus leaves 5.01. If I make it I’m home just 5.15. The bus pulls away before I have a chance to sit down. All the single seats are taken. I walk all the way to the back. I sit down next to a boy with a silver earring. I place my bag in my lap, plug in my headphones, take my glasses off and put them back in its case. I rub the bridge of my nose before putting on my sunglasses instead. I listen to The Chain or Do Not Disturb on repeat and watch people getting on and off the clammy bus. The boy next to me gets off one stop before me, so I stand up, still cradling my bag, and let him out. My trousers stick to the back of my thighs. His earring glistens for a moment when the sun hits it through the dusty windows.

Through my brother’s open window I hear his fan whirring and the clicks of his keyboard. When I get in the door I run up the stair and dump my things on the bed. I put my slick hair in a sloppy bun, peel off my clothes and leave them in a pile on the floor. I skip back downstairs in my bikini. Mom is boiling eggs. The dogs are sleeping in the shade in the back garden. I cover a cotton pad in make up remover and soak the foundation from my skin. It rolls off in thick layers onto the cotton. It feels like rubbing the skin off a peach.

Underneath my concealer my eyes are still swollen.



040718 home

An endless sea of pine trees, the sky a hue of strawberry milk, the lakes like mirrors nestled in with the perfectly stitched patchwork of the fields. Every time I return it breaks my heart in a way I can never fully recover from.


310518 melodrama

It’s been a year since I laid in my sun bed crying behind my sunglasses. I blamed the sunscreen for my bloodshot eyes. Blamed the sandy winds, the salt of the Mediterranean.

For days all I listened to was Melodrama. For 8+ hours on repeat for days upon days. I learned all the words and mouthed them. In my dreams I sang it all at the top of my lungs. It was the first time I ever heard anything that was written about me and for me, for all the girls with translucent skin, our pulses beating visibly under it, for the girls who carry our hearts in our hands, always at the ready to give it away. I was mending my broken one, cradling it in my arms, trying and failing to put it back in my chest. I kept bleeding out on a beach in Greece.

I wrote and wrote and wrote about my broken heart in the hopes of healing it. I wrote about the sun and the salt and the sand and zesty lemonade. I burnt and fried my skin to feel something else, and forced myself to believe that it’d all soon be over.


Jag hittade en kastanj i innerfickan här om dagen.
Kanske var det du som lade den där
Kanske siktade du och kastade ner den i hemlighet,
Så att jag aldrig skulle glömma dig.

Då när klorofyllet blödde ut under våra fötter,
himlen flög ifrån oss
och vinden tog i från djupet av sina lungor
och redde ut mitt släta hår till tovor

När du kysste mig i smilgroparna,
höll min hand innanför vanten så den blev alldeles uttöjd
och log sådär att jag trodde att jag alltid skulle få behålla dig

Du sjöng när vi gick tillsammans,
högt och rakt ut
När främlingar passerade gömde du dig bakom mig,
och höll dina händer i min midja, utanpå jackan,
och trots det gått nästan två år sedan jag mött dig,
så brändes det precis lika ont genom alla de tjocka lagren tyg.
Och vinden domnade de kroppsdelarna vi egentligen inte behövde,
allting utanpå.
Vi trampade på skalen med våra sommarskor,
under blöta tår och halkiga sulor bröt de små nötterna ut.
Och vi kastade dem mot varandra,
du siktade innanför min jacka
och hade jag inte vetat bättre hade jag trott att du siktat på mitt hjärta.

Jag hittade en kastanj i innerfickan här om dagen.
Kanske var det jag själv som lade den där.
Kanske fanns du aldrig ens så nära.
Kanske siktade du inte alls, men lyckades på något sätt
träffa precis lika säkert ändå.

Om att vara vilse men på väg.

Det är som känslan när man åker genom en europeisk småstad om natten
allt borde ju kännas så vackert
men det börjar göra ont
det börjar skava
man vet inte längre var man hör hemma
Man är helt ensam i världen
saker påbörjas och avslutas
försvinner in i minnets vakuum
Och ingen kommer, någonsin, någonstans att förstå mig.
(Ur arkivet)

Självbiografi, urklipp

Och nu har någon dött i cancer
och alla hans ord försvann
och alla gråter i hans ära
åt allt som inte hanns
Och jag känner mig tom och naken
bortskämd varje dag
med celler som är snälla
och syret flödar fritt
jag kan andas utan maskiner
mitt ark är fortfarande vitt

Lonely hands, grab my suitcase full of nothing

Och det känns 
som jag gått gator upp och gator ner
Och letat efter dig
Men aldrig hittat något

Och det känns
Som jag varit på fester 
och tänkt på dig hela jävla tiden
Och jag har kysst andra läppar
för att kanske 
är det du som gömmer dig där
i hörnet av ett leende
eller i ångan av en andedräkt
Och jag har letat i alla fickor
i alla brevlådor och skåp
i andra flickors hjärtan efter dig
Jag har flugit alla flygplan 
och seglat alla båtar 
och förlist med alla skepp
och störtat i alla helikoptrar
och drunknat i alla sjöar
och dansat på alla golv
och andats all luft
och gråtit alla tårar
och väntat alla minuter
och saknat slut på alla känslor
Och ingenstans fanns du.

Page 1 of 2