Here’s a collaboration between myself and Marvin. We thought “Ballad” sounded like a lovely title. Never mind that we are not profound poets, and we do not know the rules of poetry– or a ballad for that matter. Truth be told, we don’t care. Call us #rulebreakers. That said, here goes–


She said:
I should have smiled more when he called me “chum”
I should have laughed louder each time he sang me a song
I should have checked better, to see how he fared
I should have apologised more often, for the said and unsaid
I should have tried better, been more understanding and loving
I should have thanked him everyday, for loving me as he did
I should have done more, said some.
Before he left,
Him: the answer, the quest.


He said:
I should have cherished the silence better
I should have looked deeper into her twinkling eyes
I should have listened louder to the echoes of her beating heart
I should have seen the signs, the un-made gestures
I should have told her how serene she always looked,
Especially on those days when she wore her salient smile for me
I should have done more, said some.
Before she left,
She: the butterfly, the bee.


© The Short Black Girl, 2016.



You could have loved me better
Or you could have loved me more
But you chose to love me, just.

Something between the devils of your restless soul,
And the deep blue tempest sea of your rainbow heart;
Something between the grey of the salient sky
Between the symphonic glow of twilight and the deep stark of night
You loved me, just.

In all of my turbulence and too-muchness
In my imperfection and un-enoughness
Just is how you loved me,
And it is how I remember you–
Something between here, and somewhere there;
Like you never left, like you were never here.


A poem for the midnight; for the ones we miss.


© The Short Black Girl, 2016.


They will go as they’ve come

Falling away

Like old dried leaves

In the wake

Of winter’s biting scorn

A little too fast, not slow enough

They will depart, one by one

From the sound of their voices

To the feel of their touch

Their senses ‘ll leave you

As your senses ‘ll abide the loss–

Their loss, not yours

They left, not you

But it wasn’t them, it was it

Life happened, time gave

It happens when it happens

It ends when it ends

They happened. They ceased.

Nothing should ever last

More than it lasts.

So you’ll hurt,

but not a heartbeat more

And you’ll move on, because

Isn’t that what people do?



© The Short Black Girl, 2016.

Charlotte Eriksson: On Brokenness.

6 months, 2 weeks, 4 days,
and I still don’t know which month it was then
or what day it is now.
Blurred out lines
from hangovers
to coffee
Another vagabond
lost to love.

4am, alone and on my way;
these are my finest moments.
I scrub my skin
to rid me from
and I still don’t know why I cried.
It was just something in the way you
took my heart
and rearranged my
and I couldn’t recognise
the emptiness you left me with when
you were done. Maybe you
thought my insides would fit
better this way, look
better this way,
to you and us and all
the rest.
But then you must have changed your mind
or made a wrong
because, why did you

6 months, 2 weeks, 4 days,
and I still don’t know which month it was then
or what day it is now.
I replace cafés with crowded bars
and empty roads with broken bottles
and this town is healing me slowly but
still not slow or fast enough because
there’s no right way to do this.
There is no right way to do this.

–Charlotte Eriksson.


Everything reminds you of everything. You take out the old photos, and delete the messages; get rid of everything– black, and white, and blue and red. Red, blood red is how you feel, red with rage, and hurt, and longing, and ache and despair. But you don’t want to feel anything anymore– so you take out all the souvenirs and memories and burn them under the stark cold dark of night. And you return home, unfeeling; staring at the bare space and listening in on the echo of silence. And you turn up the radio, and listen to uptown funk, and have some cold beer, and watch some football, and you go to bed. You are fine now. But you turn and toss, and turn and toss; you can’t find your sleep. So you sit up, your heart stretched in apathy. You laugh, very very very loud. Your eyes water, and your throat parches, but you keep laughing. Until slowly, but surely, your laughter trickles into loud grief. You let it. For pain demands to be felt. And you realise, one day you’ll have no more tears to cry, and you’ll be fine. But until then, you no longer try to hold it back.

Until then, you decide– the only way to heal, is to feel.


Here’s for everyone breaking, or broken. ❤

PS: “Pain demands to be felt”- Quote culled from John Green’s The Fault In Our Stars.


© The Short Black Girl, 2016.