At Least I’m Pretty

I’ve got a lot of men catcalling and making advances at me on the streets these days.
I warn you all – this is not poetry. It’s a rant. An angry, feminist-cunt rant. It contains some harsh language. I’m not sorry.

First of all, you stray men who gather around me like a flock of horny bulls, do not think I’m angry. Do not think I do not understand where you’re coming from. I am aware of the fact that I am an easy victim.

Woman. Below 25. Attractive, or so they would have me believe. I look in the mirror and I get you. There’s no denying it – I have nice tits. A quite appealing face, at least with makeup applied. I’ve got a slim figure and a rather shapely back-end as well.

But most of all, I’m an easy victim because I stand out from the crowd. My black and emerald hair attracts gazes from a long distance. I wear heavy eye makeup and black clothing. I even have the guts to wear a skirt when it’s hot outside. My appearance is practically screaming out:

“Hey, I like to be harassed by unknown men on the street! I’m so sad and insecure and I need your affirming hints and shouts to fill my shallow, girly confidence!”

I don’t come with warning labels, though. There are no painted signs on me stating: “Watch out, ’cause I’m a writer. Right after this, I will go home to my desk and have my revenge on all of you. Just wait.”
Neither does it mention: “I suffer mental illness and I am self-destructive. I am terrified of the world, terrified of people and their gazes, but I still hold onto my values and will to express myself trough my appearance, which I think is quite brave of me.”

Not that I think these things would matter to you. I’m playing with the thought. If people were like whiteboards, their minds all written out on them in bright red markers, would it make a difference? Would you react any differently knowing there’s a human being in under that powder, eyeliner and rejecting stares? Or would it just assist you in labeling me as a misfitted, rebellious goth-freak who’s probably depressed, possibly suicidal? In other terms, a self-proclaimed target for your perverse fantasies.
Do you dream of pinning me down to a table while you fuck me, ejaculate on my scarred thighs and tell yourself you’re doing me a favor, giving me some appreciation? Or are you one of those men who goes with the almighty-savior-style, telling me of how you and your cock are going to save me from my vicious mind? My illness is seen as a perfect way for you to get laid. You think you can screw me until I forget about my anxiety? And when that doesn’t work out, and I’m still not feeling well, even less so now that I’ve been degraded to someone’s cliché fantasy, you will dismiss me as “cranky” and too hard to handle.
Do you want this, or do you just need to display sexual authority over me to appeal to your need for manliness and your ingrown Oedipus complex?

And when I tell you I’ve had it, and am not interested and don’t care how many times you compliment my hypnotic eyes or my tight ass. I go home and cry. Think about hurting myself. Then, deflect the blow and reapply the makeup to my face before going out, after having a breakdown behind closed doors, ready to face the world again, looking intimidating and tempting and intellectual and irresistible.

So, last of all, thank you. You, slimy guy in the corner. You three, passing my and seeing fit to throw in whistles and humiliating words. You, elderly coot, trying to evoke the interest of a woman young enough to be your grandchild. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for your blessed attention and confirmation. Thank you for ignoring my potential talents, thoughts and intellect and instead viewing me as a piece of organic material for your next masturbation round. I might still have to fight my self-destructive nature, my OCD, panic and anxiety, but heck, at least I can rest assured that I am “fuckable” in the eyes of unknown men on the street, should I ever doubt my fortune with the other sex.


About “Miscarriage”

I was very surprised to see the amount of response I got when I posted the latest of my literary ramblings on Sudden Denouement collective.

Yes, I am part of a collective now. I’m honestly not sure how this happened but it’s a huge deal for me to be recognized by other writers. I’m honored beyond words.
You can check out my post here:
And check out the other works as well. All the writers are insanely talented.

After everything this post brought me I feel like saying a few words about its origins.

I’m working on a novel. And it’s hard. Writing is not always a rose garden, as I’m sure you know. But this is beyond anything I ever experienced. It’s my journey. My odyssey. It’s beautiful, but damn if it doesn’t hurt like hell too!

My continuous self-doubt is slowing my progress. Some people find this weird. Yeah, I’ve gotten this far. Yeah, I work hard and yeah, I’m determined. And hell, the publisher bloody well called me, expressing his interest in what I’m writing.
So what’s the fucking problem?
(Sorry for the bad language.)

Well after all of this, I still don’t believe I’m good. Quite the opposite. I think I’m bloody worthless. I don’t believe in myself. I don’t believe in anything I accomplish. No matter how hard I work it’s never enough, I keep on judging myself because I could have done better. I’ve worked myself to the point of exhaustion, mentally and physically. I was on the breaking point.

That’s when I wrote Miscarriage.
Hastily, boldly, and pouring my anger and disappointment into each word. If you didn’t figure it out already, the poem is about my fear of failure. The deformed fetus represents trying to create something and realize you’ll never make it.
“Stay dead” is what a part of me wished right then. For the dream to stay dead and not come back to haunt me again. In that moment I wrote it I felt like the idea of writing my novel had forced itself into me, and wasn’t something I had decided for myself.
Maybe not even something I truly wanted.

Of course I realize it isn’t true. I do want it. And taking this journey was my conscious decision, no one else’s.

So what am I going to do now? Well, I’ll pick up my writing where I left off. Greet my anxiety and self-doubt as the old, well known friend it is and continue despite it. I’m not done here.



On my experience with being a girl

“You’re beautiful,
but you are cold,” he said
I replied,
“I am what I need to be”
A caged animal who loves in secret
Trying to hide underneath my own skin
All tucked in,
like a larva in a chrysalis, refusing to turn
Even the razors cannot sweep my conscience clean
And the sink’s always full of hairs

I learned to cut my wings with a pair of nail clippers
(They looked awful, sticking out of my shoulders)
I listened to tales of princesses in need and wondered
Did I have to be rescued, too
Boys calling me ugly words
I’ll bite their heads off
Alone, in my room
I cry over the taste of their blood and loss of innocence

I tried many times to breathe under water
Tying myself to the bottom, waiting for a mermaid tail to grow
But fins are no good on land
So I had to crawl my way back home
each time

Just a little poem about something important to me. Inspiration for this struck me when I saw the art of Alice HJ, as seen above.

Quick update


#1. I got all spooky attired today. It was fun.

#2. I’m still completely obsessed with The Evil Within.

#3. I’ve cut down on medication with my doctors approval, so now I have to work harder to fight the compulsory urges. I hope I’ll make it.

#4. Writing’s going well and if I can keep my schedule I’ll be able to send it to the publisher soon.

#5. Happy Easter!


Page remonstered


Alright, so my blog has a new look! I’m still finishing the details and going to be sorting my posts into different categories. Also the blog name has been changed to Malicias Malebolge, but the url is still the same (won’t bother fiddling with that). I’ll be posting pretty much the same things as before, poetry, drawings and sketches from my minds sanctuary, and an upcoming chronicles called Morthanatos’ Merry Monsters.

Take care everyone!


No more hiding!


For as long as I can remember, my hair has been my shield. When I don’t want people to see me (which is pretty much all the time) I lean my head down and let it cover my face. Simple.
Particularly my long fringe has functioned as my main “security veil.” For more than ten years I’ve kept it covering my (in my opinion) ugly forehead, my eyebrows and part of my eyes. It may seem like a small thing, but for me it has been VERY important in order to feel safe.

Just now, I decided to make a change and spontaneously cut my fringe short. Daringly short. Extremely face-revealingly short. I also went to the hairdresser and asked her to cut away as much as she wanted of my thick, evenly long hair. Crazy! I haven’t dared to cut my hair since forever. And I ended up with a free, thicker-looking hairdo that I really love. Still getting used to the fringe… what do you think? Feel free to tell me.

Anyway, if I can get used to keeping it this short then I can finally get that eyebrow piercing I’ve wanted. (And dare my other fear – needles.) And the next step would be cutting down on my medication, something I’ve wished to do a long time. Even though I love my medicine and has had great help of it, I wish to be set free and manage on my own.

So this is it. No more hiding, I’ll try to wear my face with pride and hopefully make a change in my life.

Malicia Frost

Ps. The text on my shirt reads “Don’t steal my wifi”. *laugh*