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Some call it wisdom, some call it philosophical, some call it pretentious rubbish. Me, I am just a bit relieved that there are still words left that I deem worthy to share with the world.

💜❤️🖤💚💙🤍🧡🤎

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To feel hope means letting go of the harrowing thoughts inside of me

If I were a painter, I would paint an open cage

If I were a poet, I would write words that made sense

But I am just a jester floating on lilac light

Feeling hope means remembering the broken fragments residing in me

❤🖤💙💚💛🧡💜

First poem of the year.

The taker of the last breath (922 words)

She runs through the night, heavy footsteps are following her. Eating up the space between her and her predator. Her lungs are burning and her legs are slowing down; her muscles are tired and shaking from the unusual exertion. Her breath puffs out between her lips in visible clouds. Panic is all she can feel. And cold.  It is an icy cold, fueled by the terror that spreads inside her bones and infests her entire body. The footsteps behind her come closer. She keeps running. At least she tries to keep running. Panting. Gasping. Fighting for air. She is trying to fill her lungs with oxygen, but she doesn’t succeed. Her breathing is too shallow. Her heart races too fast. It is quiet in the dark. Lonely in this winter’s night. She can only hear his steps. Her own steps. The blood in her ears. Please, please. Please!  she whispers into the gloaming nothingness. She sends silent prayers to every divinity she remembers, asking that someone will stop the demon behind her. But the cold in her heart lets her know that she will not be saved. Her soul is lost. Rotting. Decaying. Turning to dust. She will be forgotten. Erased from this earth. And no one will know that she ever existed. She never left a notable trace. The woman rounds a corner, losing foot on the slippery pavement. She struggles to get her feet under her body again, partly because her limbs are exhausted,  partly because in her haste, she stepped on her scarf that came loose. She turns around, feeling the wet pavement underneath her palms. She tries to crawl away from the creature that has been following her, looking at him. Eyes wide, she finally sees him up close as he takes long strides in her direction. He isn’t running anymore. Like the predator he is, he comes closer. And closer. She makes one last attempt to get up and run away, but her body doesn’t belong to her anymore. It doesn’t follow her orders, and when he kneels in front of her, with his long cold fingers enclosing her throat she looks in his dark eyes for the first and last time. Black like obsidian. A dark abyss. Beautiful. Beguiling. Pleading? As if they were asking for forgiveness and permission, all at the same moment. But then he blinks and the gentleness she thinks she has seen is gone. It made room for something cruel and soulless. The hand around her throat closes and her breathing air becomes less. And less. She tries to gulp in some oxygen, but the hand on her throat prevents it from reaching its destination. Her body spasms. Her hands touch his wrist and her legs are flailing, trying to find enough grip to push away from her murderer.  “Please, don’t let me die like this” are her final thoughts before she feels a strange and uninvited sense of lust. Her eyes keep staring at him but her soul is on its way out of her body. The horror and confusion she felt will be forever painted on her face. In rivulets, blood runs down her throat from where his sharp claws held on to her. The demon lets go of her empty vessel, and pushes angry tears off his face with the back of his blood-stained hand.
I have to do it. I will die if I don’t. He bares his fangs and with gusto, he buries them where his claws left a bloody wound on the woman’s throat.
The heat leaves her body as one last breath, one last puff of air is pushed past her lips. He stills his hunger. His thirst. His need. Until he feels the energy of his young victim setting in his veins. He sighs satisfied, but he wants more. He needs more. He can never get enough. It is the nature of things. He lets go of the limp, pale body and gets up. He looks at her. Grief is painted all over his face. He is desperate for a companion, a mate. But who could ever love what he is? Who he is? She was his first for this night. A good start. Invigorating. Growling, he pulls his fangs in. A tortured sigh escapes his lips as he turns to leave. One last look at his prey and the peaceful way she looks. All dead people have this look. At least the ones who died because of him. If he could only feel some serenity. Not much, just a glimmer of it. If his tormented soul could only find peace. He is not asking for eternal bliss, just a moment of calmness in his mind. His hands turn to fists in his pockets as he pushes the string of weak and romantic thoughts aside. This is his life. There is no choice. No other option. His hunt continues. It has to. It will never stop. Because if it does, he will cease to exist. And with him, the tiny fragments of the souls of the people he has had the privilege to empty of their blood would be gone too. He can’t let that happen. They all are part of him now. Memories of them are in his bloodstream and nurturing his body. Squaring his shoulders, he walks into the dark moonless night. He was always a man of honour and principles. At least he has been before he turned into this… A demon… A walking nightmare… The taker of the last breath.

(Originally written in August 2017, edited today.)

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If I was able to sleep, I would dream of a blink in an eye when your colour seeps into mine. Light and love fill every part of my being. One last time before everything changes. All the things we used to have and used to be... Nothing. Everything. A fantasy that becomes reality. High up in my tower, I left parts of me to turn into a spirit that is holding your hand and is cradling your tired mind. But I don't sleep. I will never fall asleep again.

Musing

This came to me a couple of moments ago. For a couple of days now, I have been thinking of giving up my online presence. (Closing Twitter and IG, even deleting the blog.)

Every thought ever shared is an old thought once it is written down, hence it loses its importance and its reason to be.

💜❤️💙🤍💛🧡🤎🖤💚

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Black hands are clawing at my dreams
Stealing those rare moments of peace.
Shaking and shivering, I turn to you, my safe light.
You understand what I need; tell me to breathe,
until the evil spirits vanish and leave.
Protected in your arms, I drift off to sleep.

Madness is Sadness

Down this river, I swam
As if someone had stolen my ham.
I ran and I ran
Chasing after the hen.
Swimming and running
Of course, I was looking stunning.
No hair out of place
No run in my lace.
Threading water and kicking stones
whispering my moans.
If the moon hides my madness
The sun blinds my sadness.
Chasing dreams that never were
Seeing my life go by in a blur.
Stop! I yelled and stood still
It was time to taste the yellow pill.
Too tired to understand the rabbits in my head
I lay down on top of your bed.
Losing my mind between your sheets
I was remembering my time on the streets.
I was the meat and you were the butcher
Joined with sutures.
Black beauty was fading
As an imminent result of your degrading.
But the tambourine man kept playing his songs
To keep me where I never belonged.
I jumped off the mountain and landed on the moon
If I survived, I would sleep until noon.
Kiss me away and draw me in the sand
Toss me aside like I am banned.
I ran from you and run to you
Never mind my footprint’s tattoo.
Out of the river, I rose
Striking a glorious pose.
And as you watched me from afar
I shone brighter than the stars
Our fling was too good to be true
It resulted in our hearts bleeding, black and blue.
There is never an end to this sham, that’s why
Down this river, I swam
As if someone had stolen my ham.
I ran and I ran
Chasing after the hen.

(…)

💜❤️💙🤍💛🧡🤎🖤💚

I am not sure what I was drinking/thinking that night in 2018 when this left my fingers, but this must be one of the weirdest pieces I ever wrote. Thoughts?

Dear Stranger

I thought about this letter for a long time. Does it need to be written? Is it obsolete? The truth is, I think this will be the last letter because you are not a stranger anymore. And I could write so many things to you and about you now, but I won’t. There is no need, and most things just matter for a moment anyway. So much has changed in only a few short months – I know, I mentioned change before, but this time, everything is different.

I thought I understood what you were going through, but I did not. I had no idea about your struggles and how they impact every part of your life. I had not even scratched the surface of your demon-iceberg.

In recent months, you opened up to me in a very honest and fragile way, all while putting me in my place too when I became too needy or too demanding when I asked questions that weren’t mine to ask.

It became clear that there can’t be anything romantic between us. We would be perfect together, but right now, it is impossible. And that is okay. You need to heal first, and I have a lot of work to do too. It became clear when we started to talk about therapy sessions. Months ago, when you were very low and told me we could not be in touch anymore because I was too tempting for you, you insisted that we could not be friends, not with our history, and yet… it seems as if we cannot be without each other. Time and time again, you got in touch again to ask for support. And in the end, without consciously trying to establish it, a bond was formed between us. It’s a bond not many will understand, and they don’t have to. It is very layered and laced with memories and mutual care. We know exactly what we are. At one point, you were concerned about sending mixed signals, but the truth is: I am not confused. Not anymore. I know who I am, and I know who you are. I am one of the very few who know every truth about you. And I did not run. I don’t know why I did not turn my back on you as many did. I just didn’t. I couldn’t.

As I am beginning to question my motives; the why’s and how’s, I wonder if I wanted more of you for myself than I knew. But honestly, I don’t know. I just wasn’t ready to give up on you. And I will never give up on you. I see you, dear Stranger.

You deserve people in your corner who support you unconditionally, who give you room when you need it, and who take care of you when you can’t.

What bothers me though is the reason why you are in my corner right now. For the same reasons I mentioned? Do you feel like you have to? Do you feel trapped or guilty? Are you scared and afraid that I could betray you and share your secrets if you walk away? I gave you money. Lots of money; almost 800euros in 8 weeks. Don’t worry, I will not ask for anything of it back. I know money is tight for you and I know that your financial management is not the best. But I definitely cannot afford to keep giving you that much money every month. Also, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth: do you keep me around because I offered to help out financially? No. I want to believe that there is more. After all, there are goodnight texts and good morning texts too. There are the I can’t sleep texts and the I just meditated ones. All these moments did not exist three months ago. And now they do. No, dear Stranger. You are not a stranger anymore. I don’t need to write any letters to you anymore. Because now we talk. We found our voice and nothing is off-limits. But there are boundaries.

Dear Stranger, I will never stop loving you in my unique way. I promised you many things and I intend to keep every one of those promises.

Goodbye, and hello.

Forever yours,

Sweetie