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.

Suckerpunch

IMG_6209

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.

(Sc)avenger

second-hand girl,
how brave she must be
to face her enemies
hands bound behind her back
a rusty lantern levitating before her
setting her eyes ablaze.
don’t let the halo fool you.
She’s no martyr
nor saint
She’s not heaven sent
or divinely gifted.
she will not knock on your door
and ask your permission
she will make you
pour holy water into her wounds
while screaming in ecstasy,
stretching her hands up to heaven.

she doesn’t believe in god
she doesn’t believe in justice.
she falls asleep fantasizing about self harm
wrists that are opened and then sewn back together
she makes up these scenarios
not as a means of inflicting damage
but as a road to retribution

too long she’s been pushed aside
chopped into pieces and carefully sealed into
thrift shop bags
who wants to buy a sexy, self-destructive no-girl?
who would like to buy an unfinished sentence
echoing into eternity?
this time, she won’t be the hog
tucked in the bag
but the one selling
this is all of me
watch me burn
cast your incantations
fire to smoke to embers to dust
the desire to change is eternal

Gl||tch

 

Sometimes, I accidentally fall
trough the pavement
underneath bundles of clingy vines, cigarette butts and
petrified fossils of chewing gum
the world below is still
ever resting
but trough the moving sky
and the electrified clouds
I can still hear the screams
of children being pulled into adulthood
threads ripping,
women cutting their skin open
and quietly dripping glue into the wounds
at 4 am beneath the kitchen table
Someone told me this was real
This,
a lifetime long wait
at a desolate train station
with nothing but the distorted laughter
of bloated rats to comfort me
I shook my head
nothing makes sense
and the train
won’t stop for me
I’m invisible, caught in between the platforms
like a badly coded game character
in an endless bug loop
wave. stare. and smile?
repeat my assigned lines
Hello would you like some assistance?
hello hello,.
It’s time to reset
to be reduced into a noise,
a random code segment floating around
between bliss and agony
screaming eternally
into the muffling hand of god

Teratophilia

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

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…

View original post 107 more words

Wardrobe

Let me show you my new dress.

It was cheap.
A disposable
wear and tear-article,
patchwork of crushed hopes
belonging to some little child
in a factory
you made this for me?
thank you!
truly!
now I can stand here, in the roaring crowd
at the eye of the town square
tiptoeing all over the sharp stones of existence
showcasing just how normal, stuck-up and
indifferent I am

But then I bled trough.
It happened quickly.
I didn’t even notice the tear in the fabric
until some kid pointed at my stomach and laughed.
“Look! She’s wounded! She can’t even walk!”
his mother hushed him, dragging him away from me
“We need to be grateful for all we have,” she said.

I scurried home,
tears pouring down my cheeks
I locked myself in my bedroom and spent the rest of the day
wrapping myself up in linens
layer after woven layer,
would cover the fanged hole in me
and stop it from leaking
“Tomorrow,” I whispered to myself, “tomorrow I’ll be prepared.”

It all started out well
I was gliding trough the polished city streets
earning compliments on my exterior,
someone told me they wanted to take me home
slit my throat and fuck my corpse.
I shrugged.
what do words mean anyway
An old woman came up to me and asked
just how I’d managed to become
so admirably ignorant
I smiled
and was about to start explaining the basics of apathy
when I felt the fabric around my hips starting to melt
and the familiar scent of smoke
from underneath my skin
oh, why does everything dissolve like tendrils
like hot wax,
clogging my veins?
Now I am become transparent
the destroyer of contemporary fashion.
with nothing at all to cover my shame
I try out another shirt,
clothe myself in layer after layer,
each one adapting the shape of the previous
there’s no escape
cotton walls are like a bomb ticking around my waist,
reminding me of how much time I have left.
How thick would you like your armor today, Sir?
Make it wool,
make it silk,
or glimmering marble,
so I can be a statue,
a work of art.
Critics can stare,
nod, and pretend they understand what’s going on
as I’m standing naked on the town plaza
wearing the face
of everyone.

Slut

I took his saliva and distributed it evenly
over my soaring wounds
I was a harlot again
filthy consolation girl throwing my skin off
for anyone who as much as touched me

But they couldn’t know
what was going on behind my shut eyelids
They didn’t know of the man following me everywhere
Sitting on my shoulders
Sucking on my bruises

They didn’t know he was cruel
they never heard him yell into their heads
things they only speak of in hell
or lower elementary school

Neither could they know
our battle was a long fought one
while he built towers for me
I would sit there
like some fucking Rapunzel, awaiting a savior
or maybe just a momentary relief
a rough canoodle
behind the labyrinth of thorns
the moment
someone would come up to me and say
“hey. I like the things you do”
I would be stunned
over how they dared to challenge this monster
whose bare apparition would have turned the noblest knight around
there are, in all honesty, some battles
better left unfought
but I would look up at them and their face would beam
and it was then it hit me
that they couldn’t see him
they didn’t know they’d just stepped up and thrown a rock into a volcano. They didn’t know the glimmering light in which they appeared to be illuminated.

They thought I knew all of this.

I don’t.