Self portrait, 2017. (c) Malicia Frost (Henna)
Isn’t it easier to be
so cruelly defeated?
To beat the world to stabbing you in
your 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?”
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…
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