"Princess" by Sarah de Souza


Life has been so horrible and distracting that it’s made me realise all I want to do is continue my youth inside a shallow bay of beautiful things. I have no inclination to any other kind of success. I add spices to hot milk, I imagine myself colliding into ghostly, gorgeous figures from the Past on bicycles or flowerpots knocked off windowsills onto my head, all these ravenous social encounters, to just leave the house in a laughing rush without even considering how the door sounds when it’s closing. I feel like how ex-stars must feel smoking viciously under furs, coat as a tent to hide under, like the only thing it’ll take to make it better is for a hundred people to be depravedly in love with you.

Last autumn I might have said: my heart is full of palaces because back then I had the joy of the perdue. White wine spilled over my map and turned it into party streamers – and wherever you go you can’t help but end up in a forest glade with tied-up pink shoes, your heart taken out and replaced with a tangerine.

Now I just look out my window at the maze, which the snow keeps writing letters to and turning the labyrinth white to make everything simple again. Now no one thinks they have to solve it.

I don’t look at my deep box of keys and bury my head so the soft currants for jams grow over my neck. I can’t unlock a door with dust and elegance


Sarah de Souza is an Indian-Irish writer and editor who lives in London. A big fan of public libraries and public transport, she speaks extremely quickly and is 26 years old. You can find her on Twitter @sarahrdesouza or on Instagram @vashtibunyanfanaccount.

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