January silence

Due to too much work my wordpress will be silent this month, folks. I won’t be able to keep up with the flow or read/comment/generally be in touch. Sorry about that. See you all next month!

 

 

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Possibly the ugliest text I’ve ever written

closeup photo of woman sitting on concrete pavement

 

I won’t even try turning this into poetry. This is dirt.

At the age of fifteen, I was convinced I was ugly. Hell, maybe I was. Not just ugly as in unappealing, but as in Franken-style societal reject. These words were repeated so many times in so many different ways – from there she stands, ugly as fuck, to c’mon, aim for her cunt – the insults were varied and sometimes rather creative.

This went on for so long, I eventually started believing I was, indeed, the ugliest girl alive. I started to alienate from the world. From teachers to family to strangers on the street, I genuinely thought I saw anyone who as much as laid eyes on me grin at the sight of the distorted teenage-thing. To this day, I still don’t know if this was actually the case, or maybe just a reflection of my state of mind. What I do remember is the shame.

I tried everything. I even started saving up money for a nose job. I covered myself in hoods and caps, not wanting to give the world the pleasure of peeking through the curtain. Nope, no free tickets here. Try the next freak show! I grew my hair as long as I possibly could, letting it cover my face. For years I was certain the only solution for someone with a face like mine was to make sure it stayed hidden, which meant, I’d never,
ever,
cut my hair again.

Well, fuck. You.

Bilden kan innehålla: Henna Sjöblom, närbild

Bilden kan innehålla: en eller flera personer

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sincerely,
Henna

I’m not your little lady

woman on black suit posing with white smoke background

I’m not your little lady
with the harness and whip and come-stained sheets
I’m not the misunderstood writer
carving sonnets onto her sleeve
while you impale yourself
on the briar roses
surrounding my tower
I’m not the wayward dame
who ought to take her feet off the table
and cover her rosebud ears
as you make another sexist joke
yes, I know my shoes are nice
and I know you want to stick your dick in me
but you see I’m not the answer to your question
whether you’re still man enough
I’m the wire around your fence
the nail you left
on your staircase to heaven
but women like me have a special place in hell
and believe me,
we will vouch for you.

 

 

 

Murder Tramp no more

Okay so listen, this has been coming for a while, but I felt it’s time I move on and pick a name of my own. It’s been fun being Murder Tramp but I’m going pro in less than a year and ought to have at least some manner of self respect. I’ll hereby be blogging as Henna. (Please note that the url also has been changed and you won’t be able to find the old one.)

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All the best!

❤ Henna Johansdotter

previously MurderTrampBirthday

 

 

 

 

Medusa tempts Eve

Woman Hiding Under Green Leafed Tree

Darling you know he only loves the part of you that’s him
You know he only wants you to lay beneath him
while he harvests the nectar from your womb
His children will conquer the earth
while you lay paralyzed in eternal labor
condemned to suffer
by his lust

Darling the world doesn’t need another tale
where woman is weak
torn hymen
bleeding on the altar of Athena
We don’t need more tales
where the women who defend themselves
become monsters
and the men who slay them
are pronounced heroes

The world needs a sweeping plague of a woman
to wage war on rapist gods
while the gardens of Eden crumble at our feet
we will hunt
and we will
eat.

 

 

 

 

Fuchsia

two women smoking while leaning on yellow wall

She slid out of me
like a splinter pulled from a grenade
climbed her Harley and spat out her gum
she said I will not write about this
you just haven’t hurt me enough
I stared in disbelief
the word woman burning on my lips
and summer was gone and our gardens
lay frozen
whereas I still danced with torches
creating infernal pathways
she was too heavy to walk

 

 

 

It’s all business to you

two women laying on bed

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The trembling knock on my door,
the accidental kiss
and the accidental hotel sex that followed,
how you accidentally took my hand and said
you were sorry

I’m now painting your hands on bullets,
polishing the trigger
(it is not her you love, is it?)
I’ve gathered all these fantasies
like pimples of my cheeks
I’m so much bigger
than my adoration for you
thrown glances
from behind a desk

yes I might be
eternally the student
the manic in the crowd
throwing obscenities at the judge

but the price wasn’t you
And we both know
who won.

So anyway,
how are you?