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journal of a knight

Unfortunately, she has never arrived in her womanhood. The sentence stayed with her and, for eight years, she kept asking herself how to finally get there. A station called woman, they say. Because of the body. Because of the toys, because of the horses. But that‘s not true. Final stop? She saddled the horse. Held the reins as they stroke through the fur to the rhythm of the hooves, catching the mane. She rode without bridle, her sleeping hands on the withers. They were on a way.

travel, travel on, travel on with, with-

out going over

going through as the way, where the way,

between

the trees.

they don’t scare me! no.

ears: howling wolves – creaking withers under my: hands. the forest is big. did not think it was that big.

for a start is this a safety we stick to. out of habit. because habit is legitimized security. complicated these

days. necessarily, not true. final stop woman. me, carried by my horse. without steering. on the beach, an

empty beach. salt on my back. my white dress. and who said that I was a girl? later they told me. no, no,

no, no, all that blood. keep on riding.

the longest beach on earth. the edge of the universe and stars. do they even have a gender? we jump and

become

star. star star star star star.

we shine and everyone sees us. me and my horse. as we fly across the sky. without asking.

stars don‘t ask.

horses don‘t ask. horses walk or stand and

sometimes they sleep and then we defeat the dragon that sleeps inside us.

I am a prince.

I am a knight.

my sword is sharp, a sorceress forged it, shiny as it is, from a strand of windy hair. blackberries between

the foxes. the old vixen says: I meant she never grew up. that‘s what I meant. because she is a woman.

she never reached her adulthood.

yet I don‘t wanna be alone. In the forest.

with the wolves and the thorns. although my sword is with me. and I am a princeknight. dust all over

the stars. they are very old. old things are usually dusty when no one bothers to dust them and usually

it‘s windless. in the treetops. shooooo. no dusty treetops. clear.

clear. and nothing’s cleardown here.

still bushes and scrub.

when they come, we‘ll jump high, right? sometimes I think about how that would be.

my prince always smiles softly. even though it’s still so small.

so we turn off, again. even though we have already come from that direction

This body is as

Round as the world asRound as the world

It is as long

As a road and runs to

The sea

Runs into the sea

In this body there

Sleeps a sea

Surging of Waves

Surging of Waves,

My child

There is a cave sleeping under

The sea

A cave under the sea that

Is holding your shape

It‘s not a secret your shape

I love it so much

I love it so much

I hold it so close

I hold it so close

Your body is as round as the world

It carries me close and you

Love it so much

Under the world, the cave,

I love it so much

The cave is warm and soft, round and fair, it‘s

A shell, a bed too and a sea

Emerged from the sea

Embodied

By you You

Children

The billowing waves

Like pebbles so small

May rest in me, you

May rest in me, you

About the Author

Since playing among meadows and fields, I have been writing. My roots lie beneath the flat lands where I grew up, and today I thrive where I find like-minded people, as a queer person in Berlin. And I am still writing.

In between, I completed a degree in Fine Arts at the HFBK Hamburg and work freelance in filmmaking and photography. My texts emerge from a deeply personal perspective while simultaneously reflecting the socio-political currents that flow between us and the horizon.

@tallulaloom