Suckerpunch, the Second Coming- Henna Sjöblom

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Have you ever tasted true revenge?
Ever feared the loss of a wound more sacred
than the hollowed out palms of Christ?

I’ll tell you, I dip my knuckles in holy water after each defeat,
so that soon my skin will be impenetrable. I charge my gun with self-pity,
coat my blade with spite.
Don’t talk to me, I grin.
I am self-destructive.

Don’t get me wrong.
I’m not stigmatizing, and I can’t be a martyr, as I never bowed to anyone.
Who the fuck set the rules anyway?
I’m a bloody artist, displaying slashes as exhibits in a showcase,
and I take pride in my performance,
but presenting wounds won’t omit the truth,
and the truth is
I’ve never felt better

Than the night I woke up in the hospital,
screaming,
chains rattling around my wrists.
Nurses with faces made of paint scrapers.
Is that what I am?
An exhibit
in need of restoration?
Or the answer to the sarcastic questions
generally asked by horny men around their 50’s?

I’ll tell you what I am.
I am too big for this place.
Acid-tripping deicide angel,
fast-forwarding trough my own rapture.
Unashamed,
unrefined,
I am what mourning widows sing of
on their way to the gallows pole.
We’re the girls that already died once.
We don’t need anybody else.


The goth girl next-door. Aspiring author. Monstrophile. Horror enthusiast. I write to cope with mental illness and everyday experiences.  You can read more of my writing at Murder Tramp Birthday.

Annotations on a post-murder- Henna Sjöblom

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Welcome, dear Sirs.
Have a seat.
Today we’re gonna learn how to slaughter rabbits.
Cut along the dotted lines, where the flesh is the most tender. If needed, lift the skirt a bit, thereafter poke a hole in the stockings using a sharpened nail.

Rabbits are esteemed survivors. If you are swift, you can manage to snatch one just before it leaps into adulthood,
but be aware that the same rabbit might return
years later, standing in your doorway at 4am
covered in gasoline, bloodshot eyes and an AK-47 pointed at your skull
when you wake up,
gasping for air, and stumbling trough the balcony door
you may find them in the smoke of your cigarette, fondling down the inside of your throat,
or on the sticky pages of the adult magazines on the bedside table,
or in the hand that grabs and caresses you in the dark, while you lay naked
and itching,
caressing, pumping,
desperately aching to feel something,

When was your first time?
Who taught you?
Graceful rabbits, watch them go,
march in line towards the water’s edge
bleeding cotton candy and crying phosphor

We are the bloodied thighs
and empty beds
ripped off polyester ears
painkillers chugged down with absinthe
in the early morning
We are persistent.
If you cut trough our stomach, our hearts may sometimes go on beating
for 40,
maybe 60 years,
but always a little faster than before,
in painful awareness
knowing what it’s like to have life ripped out by your own hands
and never forgetting the sharp intrusion
steel to flesh,
and you,
do you blush
before swallowing
or do you just
consume?


The goth girl next-door. Aspiring author. Monstrophile. Horror enthusiast. I write to cope with mental illness and everyday experiences.  You can read more of my writing at Murder Tramp Birthday.

[Untitled]- Henna Sjöblom

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I had a dream I was at a party.
The lights were low, all the flooring made of glass
everyone around me were previous versions of myself
Someone flashed a camera in my face
I didn’t want my picture taken
because I was ashamed of what I might not yet be
I told the 5-year old me there was no one waiting for her
and nothing bad would happen if she stopped waking up at midnight
to check the dark corners of her room
I warned the eleven-year old me not to cut her hair
or pout her lips at the school photographer
the 16-year old me’s all had bruises, corsets, and striped thighs
they were dancing alone, crying, and yelling that they were feeling great
I gave them each three shots of vodka
and the number to the hospital emergency clinic
I turned to my incarnation from last year,
and opened my mouth to tell her
“yes”
“the answer is yes”
but just then a squint-eyed boy grabbed my arm
and dragged me out of the apartment.
Under the bright urine-colored streetlight, in the tapping November rain,
he lit a blunt, turned to me and told me he was god
and that I had exceeded my limit of legal intervention
he said I was losing time
trying to redeem the already forgiven
I cried while he pulled a deep breath, the sweet, prickling scent of marijuana filling the dampened air,
I cried because I didn’t want to go back
nor did I have time to be anyone’s Jesus
I cried while he just stood there and got high
and when I woke up the fog had been lifted from my eyes
it’s not that I don’t care, not that I don’t wish for a
redemption, to try again
it’s just that I have grown sick and tired of this place
that I’ll never be anything but incomplete,
leaving behind unmade beds, hair-filled sinks and broken hearts,
signs of a calamity
still in process


The goth girl next-door. Aspiring author. Monstrophile. Horror enthusiast. I write to cope with mental illness and everyday experiences.  You can read more of my writing at Murder Tramp Birthday.

Just You-Introducing Dee (Yass Queen) Jackson

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Anxiety the axe.
Hacking hearts
And minds
With a blade forged of fear and regret
Even breathing takes special skill
When overcome by the battling swords of stress
Your strength is your love.
Your crown is empathy.
Septer outta peace.
Jewels dug from humble mountains.
things don’t make real kings
Power isn’t derived from monetary earnings
Thrown into a lonely hole
The lowly king is no different than the proud pauper
It’s just you and your demons
The demons that come from within
Name thy demon and escape your cave
devil derived from what you think you lack
What you lack in fact is lack
Comfort in nothingness
Removes you from the less than civil society
Reverse the evil and live
Oh, just a letter away from love.

[Dee (Yass Queen) Jackson started writing poetry as therapy. She always wanted to be a novelist and then realized she had absolutely no fondness for grammar or punctuation or sentences or what’s a fragment?  Her love for writing poems was born. She has a profound interest and love for philosophy, French music, laughing through the tears and she makes an exceptionally decent veggie chili.]