i can and i will

something old, something new, some plain sorrow, something blue.

i thought about using new words for you,
but the situation is not new.
we broke up a hundred times before.
i thougt about creating new rhymes for you,
but the feeling of things not adding up,
of everything sounding wrong ist not new,
so i won't do that.

i thought about just using an old blog post for you,
because heartbreak is always the same,
so why not just re-use every old poem that i wrote
with tears in my eyes and blood streaming down my body -
well i cant do that, because every asshole that i dated before you
was a sweet gentleman in comparison to you,
every abuser in my life was a kind friend
in comparison to how you treated me.

i thought about using a new plattform,
maybe a new diary or notebook to document our story,
but oh boy,
i would have to tell so many lies
to fill those blank pages with words worth reading,
i would almost tell as many lies as you.

i also thought about writing with a new pen,
as if the fresh ink would distract the reader
from the naive protagonist, the poor girl
who was so in love with a boy and human kind and the good in people
that she would just accept everything he did to her,
as long as he did it in the name of love.
she would patiently wait for every punch in the face
because he kissed each bruise afterwards
and smile about every knife in her stomach,
that he stabbed into her and slowly turned,
as long as he put his dick inside her, too.
But even white ink on white paper couldnt hide his crimes.

i thought about writing with a new attitude, a forgiving one,
warm and full of love for memories that never happened
and lies that i told myself to keep me warm at night,
when you didnt hold me.
but then i would be just like you,
gaslighting myself, lying and betraying the person i should love the most,
being the unloyal bastard that i wasted almost two years on.
and thats something i never want to be again.

i thought i admired you, i thought i respected you
and wanted to be more like you, but i was wrong.
i thought my only chance to be loved by you was to become like you,
but the more i behaved like you, the more you hated me -
well dear. i wonder why.
i let you take away the best of me.
you almost got away with making me cold and uncaring,
judgmental and mistrusting, a coward and a cheater.
but i didnt let you win.

in the end, i thought about not writing about you at all,
because you're worth none of my work,
and every word is already spoken
and i have nothing left to say,
but i dont write for you to feel special or to pity me or to take the blame,
i write for myself, because i deserve the closure
and i write for every other girl, that might be unlucky enough to meet you,
and i just want to tell her, run, because you deserve so much better.

a diary, a book, a poem

look at me,
born as pure as a blank piece of paper.
and look at me now: i'm crinkled and full of cuts,
full of lies and crossed out words.
and non of those words are mine.
strangers wrote all over me.

i'm full of the traces others left on me,
between the lines you might read
that they treated me like they've been treated before,
so don't blame them for dealing with their pain
in an unhealthy, destructive way,
they never learned to do it differently.

from generation to generation,
you get this burden of tragedy,
wrapped like a nice present under the christmas tree.
you'll wear it with pride and predjudice,
it'll be heavy and smother you, until you panic and run away.
here comes the (bride with the) commitment issues.

9 months pregnant with this foul aftertaste,
the bad words left in your mouth: "love","promise","support",
burning on your tongue like the lies never did.
the truth is hard to swallow,
the knowledge that something isn't right
and not like it should be, chokes you,
but with the right drink everything washes down quickly.

in labour, shouting at the child you're bearing,
as if it's her fault, that she has her father's eyes,
that you once longingly looked into
like you saw a bright future in them.
the baby is born,
or should i say the product of something that nobody would dare to call love.
congrats, it's emotional instability!

for every kiss there is also a fist being placed on a face,
every nice word is worth nothing,
if it's shouted in an ear at night
instead of whispered the next morning.
there's nothing good or pure in this world,
everything we do is based on our own egoistic wishes and twisted perception,
everythig turns to shit at some point, no matter how beautiful it has been.

every blank page of every new notebook
will end up in unreadable scribbles about nothing,
dark ink will sink into the white pages
and turn innocence into something evil.
look at me, born as pure as an empty piece of paper.
and now i'm the diary of a dyfunctional family,
who could write a book about bad decisions
and this is a poem of pain.

Dinner at Tiffany's

Now i'm here

It’s been over two years and 4 months since I wrote this blogpost.

GESUCHT

es ist sonntagabend, 00:16 Uhr,
ich liege im bett, hab mich mit  dem typen, den ich gerade date, gestritten, der job war doof heute, studium ist anstrengend und die katze hat gerade ins klo gekackt und alles müffelt.
ich bin unglücklich, und weiß nicht ob das eine aufgekommende depressive phase ist, das bedürfnis nach einem neuen haarschnitt, oder die erkenntnis, dass das leben sinnlos ist.
vermutlich alles so ein bisschen.
oder aber...
die erkenntnis, dass mir eins im leben fehlt.
nicht die große liebe, der durchbruch im job, der totale durchblick im studium oder die perfekte frisur.
sondern einfach eine freundin.
nicht dass ich schon welche hätte, aber ihr kennt das, man sieht sich zu selten, lebt sich auseinander, irgendwie ist es einfach nicht mehr diese bilderbuch-freundschaft, über die man früher gelesen hat oder die man ständig in serien sieht.
ich suche einen hafen zum ankommen, einen fels in der brandung, naja, oder jemand fürs platonische netflix und chill.

das ist so ungefähr die anzeige, die ich schreiben würde.
ich suche einen menschen, der mit mir befreundet sein möchte, das leben teilen, ohne drama, sex und andere probleme, jemand, mit dem man reden kann, über alles und nichts, dinge unternehmen kann und der für regelmäßigen kontakt auch tatsächlich zur verfügung steht.
klingt erbärmlich? ist auch so. das leben ist hart, wenn man klein und einsam ist, umgeben von bekannten und freunden, aber so der beste mensch ist trotzdem nicht dabei.

was ich biete?
drama - emotionales, beziehungstechnisches, existentielles.
aber auch mitgefühl, fürsorge, psychologisches grundwissen, toleranz, ausdauer und dedication.
außerdem jederzeit penis-witze und schlechte sexuelle anspielungen.

bewerbungen werden ab jetzt angenommen.

lily is not a flower.

still loved

I know I’m far away from being perfect,

Pay me and i'll love you