To The Boy Who Loves Me


The first version of this piece was going to be a spoken word poem. “To The Boy Who Loves Me.” I pictured myself standing on a small stage in front of only a handful of people. In my vision, you were standing in the audience, watching me standing in the spotlight, proud, because you knew how much strength and courage it took for me to get up on that stage. Sharing this poem in public was going to be my surprise to you, an expression of my feelings.

The first version of this piece told our story.

It told of two strangers on a beach, colliding, as our lives were spun around and shaken to the core by terrible events no one could have foreseen.

It told of a bond, so strong, it defied death. Created in moments of terror but strengthened in nights of thunder and lightning and rooms full of monsters and darkness.

It told of my screams that could only be hushed by your voice.

Of the hands that held mine in the darkest hours and the hope you filled my heart with. But also of the beauty that are coffee mornings, of discovering a muse and bodies that had yet to be explored.

It was a manifestation of the body and soul you saved. It was an anthem to the love you created.

The first version of this piece drifted off into an ocean of dreams we shared, plans we made and visions we had.


To The Boy Who Loved Me


The second version was still a spoken word poem. But this time it would have made you cry while you heard it.

It told about my desperate fight to keep up. A call for help, a voice terrified of being abandoned. A story of survival, not only mine, but of our love.

I tried to put in words the shame of laying your fears and secrets bare. To be told that there is something beautiful about my sadness, and then to be shunned for exactly this sadness.
In my vision, the second poem made you realise the agony of being abandoned.

It described the feeling of being in a cage, screaming on the top of my lungs, while the cage fills with water and the person I loved the most turns his back on me.

The endless darkness of dying a slow death while being told to watch the living revel in existence.

But this poem also told of a love that would not let go, that had still hope, beyond reality.


To The Boy Who Died


This is not a spoken word poem. It is a farewell.

I do no longer want to go on stage. I have nothing more to say. You are no longer in the audience.

I had to accept it at some point.

From that moment on, I did not shed a single tear. It is probably hard to believe, but it is the truth.

I put my phone in my pocket and went home.

Our love was gone, you had left.

It was time to come to terms with that. I acted as if nothing had happened.

I stopped talking about you entirely. I informed no one about your departure.

“The boy who loves me” hadn’t existed in a long time, I realised.

He had changed and vanished into vanity.

But I was sure, in their purest form his compassion, his tenderness and his heart hadn’t changed. He was maybe no longer the boy who loved me, but he was still the boy I loved.

I was wrong.

It was only after the three anniversaries of the dates that had changed our lives forever were come and gone, that I realised this.

Without a word you let those days go by, without a sign of reaching out to let me know that you are still in there. To show me that our experiences with death did not happen in vain.

Instead, you disappeared. Entirely. Exactly one year after the day I survived. And with that, the bond and the love faded, too.

The boy I knew, the boy I shared the most unusual connection with, was gone. It filled me with infinite grief to realise that the world had lost someone so unique, kind, warm, passionate and courageous. I don’t know exactly what kind of person replaced him, but I know that I will miss him forever.

To the boy who died: I want to tell you that I shall never forget what you have done for me and that I will be forever thankful! You saved my soul. I owe you my life.

It is the person you were that I keep as a memory and inspiration in my heart and mind. I miss this person with every fibre in my body, every day.

Now, you are alive in my memory. Since February 6th, 14th and 19th 2016 on, I no longer know who you are.


But please know: I’m ok.





Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s