Suckerpunch, the Second Coming- Henna Sjöblom



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,
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.
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



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

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



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
“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.

Hallucination- Aakriti Kuntal

Aakriti Hallucination
Vapors, inhaled and exhaled,
your porous skin whistles
Your skin has melted my darling
and lit these oiled sinks that I call palms
Here I collect you, between my threaded selves
Weave you with a needle in my teeth
and carve you
Your incense, bourbon patches on my winter body
I cling to you
dance on your shoulders, see-saw and rhythms
I think the atmosphere is in my mouth
and I have begun to choke
So I slide into you, legs first
lungs floating in saline bowls
and disintegrate on the tip of your tongue
I think I’m all grey, my love
I think I’m all grey
and that’s never gonna change
for you are not really here
For women like me
who carry a floppy womb of fate
and tyres on our belly
The worms of destiny and sheets of uncertainty
You are not really here
You are just pink powder
in my salivating throat
Bubble and broth,
frothing and flowing down my braids

I think I want you even like this

Poem and photograph by Aakriti Kuntal

Aakriti, aged 25, is a poetess from India. She writes because for her it is the most beautiful way to endure life. Aakriti writes for the Writings of Aakriti Kuntal, and her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Tuck Magazine and Indian Periodical among others. She won the Reuel International Prize 2017 for upcoming poet.