ODE TO AN EMO’S ROOM

In my chamber again at last!
A safe haven for a girl unbound by style,
the only sanctuary for a suffering soul.
My Mother, true womb,
what am I to the pale light of the sun? 
Naught but a single powerless peon,
but confined within this coffin
I wreak havoc within my universe.
Decorated by Venus idols not from an aged passed,
but imbued with sweaty boy dreams,
broken spine ideals,
sexy anime girls never betray you. 

Endless streams of eyeliner tears,
concocted magic through online rituals.
To the outside an adolescent sight,
to me the workings of alchemy.
My chamber echoes my vanity
and my distant dreams and aspirations.
Here I can be who I choose to be,
nay, who I must be!
Incarnate evil reincarnated,
dark stormy nights on the open sea,
My waves crash into lighthouses, extinguishing fires,
a Leviathan of broken dreams.

Outside is but the masses fit for madness
ruled by squeezing yourself into a conventional mold and feigning emotional safety.
Alas, it is a world unfit for one such as I
for my existence can be only here
within this cramped space I call home,
encumbered by sins from lives long past
here is the last bastion for wayward thoughts,
like the tower to the Lady of Shallot,
only observing the world through a mirror,
lest she be consumed by her curse.
”And so she weaveth steadily”. 

Ah, here I can brood in peace
to music that evokes the deepest recesses of the soul 
until the day inevitably comes 
when these walls crumble and fall.
If that is fate then so be it!
I shall dawn myself to the world 
and leave this cradle 
to walk with goths and non-goths alike.
But until then I take solace in my own company,
fuckboys just don’t cut it.
My chamber fits only me,
feeding off the dark like a leech.

text: Beate Björkengren

cradle

to be born into the grave
not willing, nor able
the lilacs growing eventually in spring

lulled gently by the cradle
the rotting carcasses of unfulfilled wishes tipping over the edges,
growing like mold

it didn’t have to be that way but it was
and it became the march through the night all of us
like the dance macabre
became morbid figures
dancing the night away

it wasn’t like we had a chance to become
ourselves or anything
after all,

a birth rooted in death is, figuratively, an preemptive strike

living
like burning candles in the wind
not really understanding the meaning of heat

it is fragile

Text: Beate Björkengren
Image: Alexander Norton, “Was ist loss?”, 2015