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fairy dust

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The night begins to stretch into eternity  like an occult, mystic casted spell Shadows glide silently into the dense forest leaving a trace of  fairy   dust  behind  among them the most enchanted being Floating over the moist undergrowth Humming a nymphish melody Reminiscing about her  fairy  companions  she completely merges into her surroundings  her long, silver hair shimmers in the wain of the moonlight her cherry lips tremble indicating  her going into ecstasy Thrilled by the magic of the forest with eudemonia and excitement  entwining her kind soul A thunderbolt strikes  deterring peace, declaring war A superior force, like an inconceivable curse alters a destiny  by violently grabbing the helpless  fairy by tearing her fragile wings apart by forcing her into a bottle similar to some kind of exceptional insect Petrified she remains silent  Only vaguely she perceives the cold whispers  “you are safe now...
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who are you when nobody's watching?

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https://open.spotify.com/track/4bJygwUKrRgq1stlNXcgMg?si=c72489a762e54f76 who am I when nobody's watching? unfortunatly I immediatly could fill two pages of my note book with possible answers to this particular question like: I'm a peaceful gangster who uses her voice as a delicate tool, I'm an energetic, loud fangirl kissing the book cover of crime and punishment, I'm a half-Revolutionist living in the shadows, only appearing when nobody's watching. I'm an amateur poet, a thrilled story teller, a late night (terrible) singer, an unknown fashion icon, a dirty dancer and a drowning ship full of unwanted melancholy and self-pitty.  I'm a bouquet with delightful flowers and every one of them represents one of my souls, one of my personality traits. Like everybody else I'm a person colored in diffrent nouances, covered with multiple layers. secretly.  Why do I hide behind an avarage, narrow, finite version of myself?  Probably because of fear of rejection, o...
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lighter-girl

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I always keep a lighter in my bag. Always. Besides of practical purposes like burning down houses and corpses in any time needed, there is more to this little habit. Light is not only meant for me. It is meant to be transmitted, it is a breath of energy, it is in its nature to change forms and never go out.  My first thought of a lighter is a shallow and almost helpless romantic one: it is around midnight or long after, I am with my friends or alone in the asleep city, listening to the loud music playing in my head, noticing the dopamine running through my veins, tasting life; when you see me. You ask for a lighter and I grab my bag, feel the cold metal of the demanded tool and then your warm rough hand in mine, while im passing it over. I become the saviour of your night. You light your cigarette blowing off the lovely fading smoke, thinking about the mysterious pretty poet, who lent you her lighter. I'm your lighter-girl.  However, it then hit me like a thunderbolt: I'm mor...
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