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!

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…

View original post 243 more words

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.

Girls for Satan

 

My best friend used to whisper:
“Let us lay down our lives tonight
here, at the offering table
let us tie our mouths shut
and tape tongues to our legs!
We’ll never be pure again!”

It was funny, back then
when we were a bunch of chuckling preteens
and would sneak into the bathroom together,
pull out or pocket demons
and dance around the sink as if it was a naked calf.

People say girlhood is full of glitter and carnage
we would collect the heads of boys who over-talked us
and we would let the blood water our throats,
nourish our budding lust for revenge.

I kissed my friend’s naked areola
under the blankets in my bed
while we were hiding from our parents
we chewed bubblegum and performed blood offerings monthly
we cried in the shower at night
and sang for the devil watching us in the the moon
we could fall asleep safely
knowing we weren’t alone.

Oh, now what will our parents say?
Girl rejects god, finds self-realization
Girl is full of itches, can no longer accept place in society
Girl found at devil’s side, drinking absinthe and reading obscene books
Girl doesn’t care what you think
Girl touches herself and likes it.
Girl disappoints the world,
pukes all over your condescending words.
Girl gains safety
trough deviation.

 

This piece of mine was also submitted and published to Sudden Denouement collective and found here. Felt like I want to share it on my personal blog as well as I’m pretty content with its atmosphere!

(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.