Hanahaki Lovesong

 

They say,
if you give your body to someone
who doesn’t love you
a flower begins to grow in your lungs
reaching higher and higher trough the airways
slowly suffocating its host

If I’d known,
I wouldn’t have washed my sheets for you
making my illness seem like an amendable mistake
now the covers are ripped off, revealing
the blood and bile beneath
I said I didn’t want to have a child
You said can you give me more time

The bathroom sink is covered in hairs
I pulled them as I slammed your head into the edges
again, and again
does it feel good, love? do you feel powerful?
Thin slices of brain matter
pave the way to the shower
where I lean back and place a hand between my legs
and think of how I could have owned you, too

but you didn’t know, did you?

Isn’t that ironic? We tend to be more attracted to people
who reflect our own issues
so who can blame me for making up scenarios
on angel boys with itching self-harm scars,
bent over their kitchen tables at 3 am
crying over a piece burnt toast
and completely unaware that the world has moved on without them

disillusioned, like me, as I wash my regret down the sink
and spray weed-killer over the floor
to prevent the growing plague of awareness
the clogged breathing emerging from the drain
(I’m a very hungry girl)

So go along and call me a bore
a one-night-asphyxiation and a waste of time
say I did not even have the lungs to scream
(whore)
as you pushed my knees onto the floor
I didn’t know my pride had to die
so your love could live
(go home and lick your wounds)
you’ve now become the sickness

 

 

 

[footnote: Hanahaki is a fictional disease appearing frequently in angst art and fanfiction where a person will cough up flower petals as a result of unrequited love. The only ways to avoid eventual suffocation is to have love answered, fall out of love with the person, or sometimes have the growth surgically removed. Pretty edgy stuff!]

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Excuse me, Operator

Excuse me, Operator,
what time is it again?
The mechanic response echoes
on an empty line
Sorry to bother you like this,
I just called to find out
if you still think I’m worthy

and did you know?
some people would hurt you if they could get away with it
I scream into the handset after the signal’s been cut off
It’s easier to talk to the ghost of you
’cause you were never a great listener

I cannot tell mind and matter apart,
I draw an image of a razor-blade and let it cut my skin
I used to think artists were crazy
while I opened my mouth like a heathen
and fed of the marrow of your words
had sex with the concept until my patience ran dry
endless nights of never-sated cravings
the daydream that turned into a nightmare, and then into you
Now I’m chasing the sheep out of my bed
and into a never-ending void of static
My mind goes still,
every voice behind my eye holding its breath
Excuse me, Operator,
I’m still here, right?

The Postmodern Love Manifesto

I made a fool of myself at the museum of arts
standing in an empty display case, trying to look intellectual,
You came by and patted my head, saying
“maybe when you’re a bit older, honey.”
I walked home in a blind rage, thinking
“art is stupid and self-ridiculing”

I made another Spotify playlist
dedicated to Your complete ignorance of my unexplored magnificence
And I know You hate metal (can’t stand the throaty screams and the satanic finger gestures)
But I can’t help but associate You with the things I like, You know? Even though it’s all wrong, shooting cute origami birds with a machine gun

Still, as You walked past me in class today
I silently put away my phone,
diverting my gaze from the constant stream of homo-erotic manga
I feed to myself to avoid the insight that life might have no purpose
Our constant search for meaning leads us nowhere
renders us cold and senseless

“You’re not paying attention,” You say, slamming my fingers with the pointer stick,
but the truth is, I’m thinking of You
in between the scrolls on my Facebook-feed
Press like to avoid terrorist attacks
and 13 toxic relationship habits you didn’t know you were displaying
Yeah, I’d even count You
-You!
among my most common fantasies
along with the one where I have sex with my favorite horror antagonist after he’s sewn my slit wrists back together

If You knew of this, You’d say I only love the idea of You
and that I don’t actually want You
that I, like Shakespeare, am just using You to dignify myself
and maybe You’d be right

I, on the other hand,
would say that You are okay
and I could put up with You
imagine the two of us –
You, sound asleep, bloated with the severity of adulthood,
and me, lying beside you,
incompetent, sex-crazed, young and disoriented,
silently jacking off to pictures of manga boys with embellished dicks

Even though You claim to understand where my aching need comes from,
You’ll never have all of me;
You’re already sharing me with hundreds of imaginary beings,
thoughts, and incidents,
some of which occasionally seem more important than You
Don’t ask me to lay my heart out for You.
I’m a woman of a boringly romantic nature,
I only write love letters to concepts
delusions
and vague ideas of events that will never take place
I’m the girl they write books about
Telling You how hard I am to love
I’m a conquest, a triumph,
And a worn-out societal concept
But more importantly, I’m a woman who knows I’m worth as much as any man
(Even You.)
I’ve got a hundred and thirty six ideas of how the world might end today
and trillions of ways that I can prevent it from happening
But today I’m thinking of You instead of saving the world
You’re the “obsessive” to my compulsive disorder,
the “I” in bIpolar
and I will grant You a part of my anxiety –
which is also a kind of love.

Sex During Surgery – Malicia Frost

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After a long silence on the poetry front, here’s my newest work submitted to Sudden Denouement collective! I’m quite proud of this blood-dripping piece. Read if it evokes your interest!

 

A Forum for Divergent Literature

I made a joke
of pretending to be injured
when actually I was only transparent
the light shining through me
revealing the unforgiving truth;
“you can be better”

but with his latex-clad hands wriggling against my uterine wall
it is so hard to stay anesthetized
all I can do is hold my breath
and pray for release

the source of my problem was an overactive imagination
he swore to remove carefully
“Everything must be kept sterile” he said
while using a rusty pair of pliers
to extract the last pieces of woman from me

It shouldn’t have been me
I cry into the piercing light of the fluorescent
I only wished to be reborn as a more complex being
freed from the prison of fertility and lust
this kind of love
that will leave you naked and ripped open
in a cheap motel bed at 5 in the morning

His…

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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

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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.

(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