Saint Lucia & The Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage

Trust is a beautiful thing. Which means that it is easily broken. And once it is broken it cannot be mended, unless you’ve mastered the Japanese art of Kintsugi. Even then, we are humans, made of flesh and bone and minds that wander. Far.

People trust so easily here. They assume that nobody is out to get them. They do not worry about getting robbed in daylight. They do not fear a person who is nice to them wants something from them – money, connections, “face”. They do not worry that a person who sleeps in their apartment will take something from them. They do not buy laptop locks for the library. They buy group tickets with complete strangers from across the country – from s’Hertogenbosch to Hoorn to Kampen.

“But you are family” “Of course you can spend the night here” “You’re welcome to stay in my garden house” “But do take some cupcakes with you” “Do you want to stay here while I get us some food?”. Things you say but I would never say this soon. Maybe never. Because I want to assume that people are, on the deep inside of their minds, out to use others. Maybe this thought comforts me even though I wish it weren’t true. Like a house that is worn down but too comfortable, just like in Tokyo Tower (2004).

Kintsugi, the Japanese art of mending broken pottery
You say you want to spend the rest of your life with me, possibly. You say that I am beautiful, regardless. You say that you will never leave me. You say you’re afraid I will leave you one day for a beautiful Swede with long curly locks. And then I see what I see everyday in the mirror, but on the outside, like Alice Through the Looking-Glass. And I laugh. Then you laugh.

Fear of rejection. Of abandonment. Of feeling like I am everywhere and nowhere in the world, like “too much butter spread over too much bread”.

I dream that one day I will give you that card I bought years ago, the one that reads “You’re My Favourite Person In The World”. With its yellow and black writing from Harrod’s. I have tried, three times. To give it to you. But every time, a voice told me: They will leave you and then you’ll feel silly. Don’t let others leave you. You leave them.

saint lucia
Saint Lucia, who pulled out her eyes in order to devote her life to her true love and belief.
To sacrifice oneself, but not too much. To keep them off the world behind my wall. In a dream, I saw myself on a Sahara-like dune with a Norwegian fall sky. The dune was full of writhing jet-black branches and bushes made of scrawny arms. You stood on the other side of the branches and I saw you, but I saw not your face. Then I shot you.

I want to be able to say, I love you, without expecting anything from you. Without using it to make you love me more. Without making you change how you feel about me. I want those three words not to rip away a piece of me and get sucked into your being, like a puzzle. I want to not have to stop myself from saying this in my head to you every time you look into my eyes and tell me you love me without speaking.

The four letters weigh down on me like shards of glass. Feathers on a noose in my purple landscape. There’s too much attachment, too much meaning in them that I want to deny they exist. Instead, I say, I like youIch finde dich süß. Ik vind je leuk. Jeg leker deg. Like is a jam I can spread over several slices without feeling like I’ve been a glutton. Love is the nutella I put on the top shelf, and I kick away the Ikea stool. Auto-censorship is what it is.

I am sorry this is always how it goes
The wind blows loudest when you’ve got your eyes closed
But I never changed a single color that I breathe
So you could have tried to take a closer look at me
I am tired of punching in the wind
I am tired of letting it all in
And I should eat you up and spit you right out
I should not care but I don’t know how

So I take off my face
Because it reminds me how it all went wrong
And I pull out my tongue
Because it reminds me how it all went wrong

I am sorry for the trouble, I suppose
My blood runs red but my body feels so cold
I guess I could swim for days in the salty sea
But in the end the waves will discolor me