Harmful suggestion

Bildresultat för stomach mouth horror


Suggestion 1.

You’ve finally learned to grow a mouth from your stomach. She talks greedily of things you never dared to touch. You affront and offend, never again will a man silence you. But this woman, this untamed voice pulsing beneath your abdomen, assimilated with your body so tight that every time she opens her mouth, a piece of your gut falls out.
Knowing the price of expression, will you still choose to speak?

Suggestion 2.

You are an angel. But the wings are coming out of your eyes. You cannot see. You have to depend on other’s versions of the truth. They talk about righteousness and the garden of Eden, but you can taste the corrosion in their voices. You wonder what the sun looks like, the face of god taunting your dreams. Heaven you say, choked down by tears, heaven is nothing but a temporary state of unawareness.

Suggestion 3.

I no longer believe them.





And I Loved



Have you thought of how many dead you’s exist in the minds of other people? How many wounded, bruised, beaten, raped, left-to-die replicas of you walk around the streets? I collect them all as they pass by and keep them pressed between the pages of the Holy Bible, a collection of possible truths, of futures to come.

My therapist says my suspicion towards other people is abnormal. I want to tell her all the reasons why I keep the word misanthropist tucked in safely underneath Adam’s rib. Instead I tell her about the obese, shaven man on the train station, his belly so large the face of Hitler on his t-shirt much resembled a balloon.

I want to tell her the reason I became this thing. It is quite simple, actually. I loved. The amorous terrorism, the poaching of hearts, all of that crap. And I still do, although I conceal it carefully enough. I still love the smell of gunpowder in the air after you stormed out declaring I was crazy. I still love the way you make me stuff a meat knife in my handbag before going outside. And boy, you’d better be aware that I still love you enough to give you my hell, so bear with me and we might just become something more.





Letter to an abuser who does not think she’s my abuser

Bildresultat för haunting photography


It’s hard to press charges against someone who saved your life.

Even after all you’ve done I still feel like I owe you thanks. So I’ll say it. Thanks for taking your time to get to know a fifteen-year old suicidal girl. Thank you for defending me against the suggestions (just die!) and insults (pathetic cutter girl), thank you for walking next to me in the corridors while deflecting hateful glares, thank you for giving me something to hold on to in my middle-school hell.

Thanks for a hundred nights of laughing hysterically under the blankets, dismissing the platinum-blonde show-the-edges-of-your-bra-people as if we were any better than them. Thanks for saying “ew” when people asked if we were lesbians. Thanks for the teasing, the accusations, the outright insults, the threats. Thanks for staring at the cuts on my arms and thighs, and thanks for never saying a thing.

It’s important to call abuse by its name, my therapist says. She’s the first person who actually convinced me that this was the case. Abuse. I say it out loud to myself. I’ve been subject to abuse. It sounds pretty, something you could write poetry about. Roses roses abused roses.

You know what is not pretty?

Being on all fours, vomiting in the crapper because you have not slept for 3 days and your body is starting to revolt against itself. Crying on the streets and begging strangers for help. Thinking someone you trust is actually going to kill you.

Have you ever thought someone is going to kill you? It’s like a bluescreen on a computer. You sort of slide out of your body, go numb. You can’t move. Can’t defend yourself. You merely await the blow that will put a tragic end to your existence. Did I owe this all to you? Was it really your right to torture me, or rather, was our friendship a gift from me, a gift I had to repay in tears, choked cries and nights spent begging for mercy? I wish I could say this brought me something good, that it was all worth it. It fucking wasn’t. Five years have passed and I still wake up with the weight of your knees pressing upon my chest, certain I heard you breathing next to me. And I know I won’t get up and start converting these terrors into words. Trying to transform this fear into art is like trying to make a statue out of sand. Better leave it, ugly and dry. I cherish my uglies.

I know you won’t be reading this. I know that you are long gone, and for that, I am utterly grateful. Still I want you to know that you cross my mind ever so often, and that I hope that you’ve spent at least one night awake wondering exactly where we went wrong.

I hope you think of me and shudder with longing knowing that I’ll never return.


God of the Suburbs

Bildresultat för disturbing vintage man


He sits hunched in Buddha position, glossy potbelly trembling over his belt, tower of beer cans shielding his face. His wife fries chicken wings in the kitchen; she’s covered in bruises and her hands are spongy from pleasuring herself to sleep each night. Grease and drippings flow from the furniture like honey trough the land of peace and plenty. The mill grinds steel, sharp flakes sailing trough the air, cutting through anything with a pulse. His children shriek and bow before his hands, the taste of hot iron being pounded into shape. Come and witness us worship at the altar of the white Hyperion, he who is belt strap and mouth gag, who likes his eggs runny and who doesn’t care for politics because he knows he’s already God. The neighbor’s cat never returned. In his decadent kingdom, any meat makes a meal.






centipede woman by Elleir


You say womanhood I say trauma
you say uterus I say flytrap
Sometimes I feel like I’m two entities locked in a
lethal symbiosis;
one of us constantly hurts,
grinds against any sharp object they can find
while the other just pretends they cannot feel it
glues on lipstick, eats a bottle of Xanax,
and calls the neighbor a whore
I tell my body to shut, please shut, but it opens,
I’m not great breeding material you see,
death herself reached her bony fingers in
and pulled a joke out of my womb.
if you ask me what it means to be a woman
I’d say I have no clue
except that she’s carnivorous in nature
and will eat
anything in her way



Bildresultat för bus passengers vintage photography


Four stone-chips on the window. A man in a far-too-wide pair of shorts stares at me from the other side of the aisle. Shame he doesn’t know how many of his kind I keep domesticated under my tongue.
On his way out, he rubs his dangling balls against my hip and whisper under ragged breath
Funny how everything just up and disappears behind that word.
Credibility and potential and spirit, all melting like sugar into his shallow cup of beautiful
sweetening the taste, but diluting the substance.

I now think of God as I thought of my father,
vital to my existence, useless to me now
a spineless coward who ran away the first time he caught me in bed with a man
has a bunch of bastard children, doesn’t care for any of them
dipped them in vinegar and called them beautiful
then closed the lid and never returned.



Uuuh… side note? This isn’t actually about my father, who is in fact a great man and dad. If you read this dad (although I sure hope you won’t). Lol. I love you!