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?

Still Life: Smear – Malicia Frost

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Fresh work of mine up on SD!

A Forum for Divergent Literature

The waiting room is full
the tapestry bleeding fungi,
framing the stain
where I pinned their lifeless bodies
a collection of easy-to-use, handicraft lovers
The steel door damp from their reluctant moans
Ideas when abandoned take on hideous forms
Glimmering girls
fly for one night only

Now, her legs are spread wide to receive salvation
Rib cage bent open like sharp mandibles
Intestines twined into useless arms
flapping up and down,
as if mocking the art of flight

You think it will not kill you too?
halo around your thorax won’t protect you
when my mind, with the hands of the drowning
clings on to anything and anyone
that crosses it


[Malicia Frost, or Henna, is a hobbyist writer and an aspiring novelist from Finland. She enjoys surrealism, sci-fi and horror, and her works often deal with mental illness. More of her works can be found at her personal…

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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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bogged, buried, bridgewatered-Lois E. Linkens & Malicia Frost/Malicia’s Malebolge

A collaboration between me and my lovely sister-in-ink Lois Linkens was recently published to SD. I’m very happy with the piece we achieved together! Please give it a read!

A Forum for Divergent Literature

I was fourteen, and starting to decompose faster

the water spilled

over the years,

over her body

like a plague of ants.

Already kneeling in the mud

I could feel my body being stretched out 

nipples aching, labia swelling

it drove its way in,

with a silent battering ram

and swords of silk.

you were the first time

I felt the touch of death 

between my legs

oh, hateful –
but grateful she was
that the stone struck when it did.

a cry of despair,
like when I was nine,
lying on the hard parquet floor of the living room
cupping my breasts,
trying to push the knots back in
I’m just a child! I’m just a child!

she lifted dead hands
in praise of her protector,
for protect her he had,
and as layers of dirt built up,

I threw rocks after boys
who came yelling my name

she…

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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.