Suckerpunch

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Self portrait, 2017. (c) Malicia Frost (Henna)

Isn’t it easier to be
so cruelly defeated?
To beat the world to stabbing you in
the fucking guts?
The hospital says the won’t have me.
No one will strike against an open wound, no, no one will reach their fingers trough a steady blood flow to see if there’s a pulse.
Suffering is a shield, I decide, and I will wed it if I have to.

I’m a virgin in the art of asking for mercy.
I’d rather lay flat, speechless, talking to no one.
It seems strange, you say, that a person so obviously in love with words would know no other way of saying
“Would you stop it?”
“Let go”
than displaying slashes as exhibits in a showcase. I was never art until I learned how to hurt.

Now, it seems rather unfair, I say,
that wings should grow out backwards, penetrating lungs from within.
Why learn to fly when you can learn how to breathe again?
I won’t complain. I’m an attentive student or so they say. I lick the words I eject, to see if they still taste of you, The flavor of Revenge: sickly sweet.

I grew up in a dumpster East of my aorta.
Preachers kept coming to my house to tell me that love will cure me.
Years later, I wrote my priest a letter. Telling him to go **ck himself
I stopped trying to make everyone love me.
Instead I assembled my demons for a nice gathering in my garden over a cup of lavender-infused tea.
He told me things no one ever said before; that I was strong and could overthrow the world if I wanted to. I leaned forward and whispered, silently, my breath stroking his fangs: “I think I’m in love with you”

This seem unlikely?
I confess – I’m making parts of it up. Imagination is my weapon of choice, and it’s hard to shout into a storm without losing your breath and drying out your tongue.
I need no angel to look after me, I’ve got one of my own making; he eats painful thoughts and drinks regret. People say our story is one about love.

I say it’s about survival. What’s the difference? Well, you see. Survival is about a choice. And mine was to, in the end, save myself.

Signed,
the person I hope to become someday

 

 

This has a style somewhat different to what I’ve written before. I don’t really know how it came to be, except I was inspired by Delain’s song “Suckerpunch”. And a bunch of other things. Most of all, I just wanted an excuse to post my new drawing. So here it is.

Teratophilia

My latest poem up on Sudden Denouement, along with my drawing. Check it out!

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

18083774_1399831520109623_1963768446_o Drawing (c) Malicia Frost // Henna Sjöblom

I never wanted your understanding
All I need is a mouth
someone who roars louder than me
someone who grabs first and asks not
whether I’m enjoying it
to block out
my own desires
I have chosen to love the monster
I did not ask for it,
still
I think I’m quite comfortable in here

Being bitten is painful and familiar
I collect his teeth as trophies
like soldiers stacking bullets around their necks
like we used to compare our scars
in middle school
“I think he’s getting more violent,” you whispered
and shivered in terror and ecstasy
over the thought of getting torn apart
at the dinner table that night

Now,
my skin has become a topographic map of wars
that were never recorded in history
My anxious fingers wander up to his jawline
and starts deciphering
where the next impact will…

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Art dump #?

zelfportrait

So, I decided to make some space on my blog for drawings. This is my latest. Self-portrait.

 

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OC’s. Based on excerpts/headcanons from my book.

 

Really old ones that you might have seen before.

 

Also kind of old ones that I’ve never posted.

 

Some from my sketch-book. The latter, illustration to go with my post Morphazine.

 

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Last one. Anxiety attack, illustrated. Kind of a quick vent-art from this week, which has offered quite a few challenges and breakdowns. As you can see.

 

All works (c) me.

Reasons not to kiss him

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(c) Malicia Frost

Your lips tasted like violence
The last breaths of your victims
lingering on them

I pretended not to notice
Let you bed me
Afterwards, as I lay in your arms
I tried not to listen to the screams
echoing from the outside

Is it better to love evil tenderly
or fight it with loneliness
From a distance your shadow grows taller
Yet nearby it’s homely and warm

 

This was inspired by a poem I came across online.

/Malicia

The God With The Mortal Complex

 

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Five years old, he knew he wasn’t like the others.
From birth, his first word had been “why”.
His siblings didn’t understand its meaning.
It wasn’t for them.
They knew only to feed and breed, to enjoy their existence but not to question it.
“Why” was a human word.

Ten years old, they told him not to bleed or feel pain.
He rejected this knowledge, using the sharp edges of his halo to cut his rib cage open at night, when no one could see
A phantom death
A trip to the stars
Whose cold light pitied him

Fifteen years old, his siblings wanted to rule the fate of others
While he wanted to rule his own
Exiled, he began to search
For meaning to his endless existence

Teach me, he begged
Teach me to suffer
He started drinking himself to sleep each night
Saw what humans dreamed of
Tasted their tears
Condemned their fears
Fools, he said
As they wept at the sight of death
All I have, you yearn for,
But all you have, I may never gain
Such twisted irony,
that Heaven would not be for gods
And no one will redeem me!

A short story with a quickly made drawing by me.
/Malicia

 

The Scarecrow

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They told him
“The best way to fight your fears
is to become them”
But they didn’t mention
How dark the world would seem
trough his new eyes
Do you truly wish to know?
Who would you be without the fright?

Another painting by me, done in aquarelle markers.

/Malicia