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“Whenever people ask me to tell them something about myself I get a bit nervous since I don't know much. I know that I want to live in Portugal one day and that I've always believed that fairy tales aren't all just a product of our imagination. Maybe it's because I want people to believe there's more than just the ordinary. So I write about people I know who might just stepped out of a fairy tale. I'm 18 years old, a firm believer in second chances and I aspire to be a person full of emotions not known yet to me, to see colours I haven't yet seen, to be full of every emotion and not get scared of that."
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SALOMA
They were trying to pull out the pale body out of the red, scratched car. But not even the strongest of them all, Isadora, could not escape the fact that the body was as heavy as the awful truth, which whispered in their ears like a soft melody, humming like an old radio. Saloma was dead and no one was guilty, not even the drugs. Not even the depression and the fact that she was gender fluid.The body fell on the cold stones next to the ocean and they thought that maybe, just maybe, the ocean would wash away the pain. They wished it would wash away her as well. They did not want to remember, because there was too much to remember and every memory of her made them feel like they almost fell off the stairs - which they all wished they would - so they could die with her. But they dropped her off on the beach and Lola softly prayed for her all whilst taking another pill, which none of them knew what exactly it was.
Saloma’s socks were red, like the old car Naomi had bought from her cousin, and when they came back to the shore the very next day, all that was left were her socks on the concrete, on the road that led to the forest. 2.
I had no control over myself - at least not when it came to Saloma. She was my everything - her red socks she wore the day she supposedly died were the only thing i could remember her by. Even though she was so much more than that - above all, she was my lover. She was my pleasure. She was the calm before the storm. One day she wanted to kill herself and i brought her daffodils and I kissed her neck, “When sadness is eating me out, I don’t let it. I come to you and let you do the rest,” but she didn’t move, she continued drinking the chamomile tea with honey - what i always told her to do when she feels sad. 3. Some of us described her as some sort of light. Strong light. Not sun beams. Not moonlight. More like solar eclipse. More like sudden pulse of light, which was more than beautiful. But it could kill you if you stayed there for too long. What none of us realised, we were the one who could kill her if we left too quickly. 4. Saloma was not born under a lucky star. she was born under a felicitous star. Luck came her way when she least expected it. Traffic lights were always green for her, never yellow, never red. 5. lace, lace, lace and pearl like silk, red laced bra, red laced panties, red - silk like lips, red, the colour of love, the colour of lust and passion, she was it, the colour of red roses, the colour of red blood, the colour of the red sun setting off - the reflection of it seen in the waves wavering right beneath the sun.
Saloma’s socks were red, like the old car Naomi had bought from her cousin, and when they came back to the shore the very next day, all that was left were her socks on the concrete, on the road that led to the forest. 2.
I had no control over myself - at least not when it came to Saloma. She was my everything - her red socks she wore the day she supposedly died were the only thing i could remember her by. Even though she was so much more than that - above all, she was my lover. She was my pleasure. She was the calm before the storm. One day she wanted to kill herself and i brought her daffodils and I kissed her neck, “When sadness is eating me out, I don’t let it. I come to you and let you do the rest,” but she didn’t move, she continued drinking the chamomile tea with honey - what i always told her to do when she feels sad. 3. Some of us described her as some sort of light. Strong light. Not sun beams. Not moonlight. More like solar eclipse. More like sudden pulse of light, which was more than beautiful. But it could kill you if you stayed there for too long. What none of us realised, we were the one who could kill her if we left too quickly. 4. Saloma was not born under a lucky star. she was born under a felicitous star. Luck came her way when she least expected it. Traffic lights were always green for her, never yellow, never red. 5. lace, lace, lace and pearl like silk, red laced bra, red laced panties, red - silk like lips, red, the colour of love, the colour of lust and passion, she was it, the colour of red roses, the colour of red blood, the colour of the red sun setting off - the reflection of it seen in the waves wavering right beneath the sun.
YOU (i think i've known you since the beginning of time. we once fell in love. our souls crashed and we have been seeking for each other ever since. each passing life, i see you. you smile, angel. you smile and i know.)
from the spider webs in my room grew an angel. it flew to the cherry tree and ate all the sweetest cherries.
all the while, we are still seeking to find each other...
hot concrete and yellow leaves under purple converse shoes.
in expectancy of the sea.
i am slowly walking to the city, where i will, of course, buy some more weed.
because being high makes it easier to dream of you.
the wind is blowing as if it is trying to remind me of something, as if the tree branches could all tell me a reason.
i grew. in a night's time i became like hot concrete. i burn for you and from you. you are the sun.
i would dance in your eyes,
full of love, full of silver.
full of you. one way or the other.
a scorpio and a virgo,
sex and purity.
you move like god, who fell in love with a witch.
feeling like the sun setting in the morning,
even though i prefer when it goes to sleep in the evening.
in love.
where are you?
a cigarette, stubbed out on my heart.
the bubbles in water
and the expectancy of something better, of something more beautiful.
the dog is barking in the expectancy of a long walk
and we might find each other in dreams…
maybe even in reality.
i am waiting for you in every possible place,
maybe one day you will come to me.
one way or the other.
i want you to take me with you, so we could make love in the dark corners of the broken, cracked vases with no glue.
i want to hold your hand while you tell me why you like to sing. is it because you can mask your words into something prettier, even though you might not understand them yourself.
i want to love your hands like i love roses. i want you to let me do that.
you, you who isn't nothing and you who isn't everything.
and me, who isn't nothing.
and me, who is made of 102 little fragments, scattered in the salty sea and flying on the seagull's feathers.
i want to find out where the fragments of your soul are. where you feel them, where you see them. are they right next to you? did you tell them to fuck off? did you tell yourself to fuck off?
(please, don't tell me to fuck off as well.)
(please, don't choose someone who has brighter eyes. someone who has vivid blue eyes.)
maybe grey is the right choice.
maybe grey is true.
maybe