OCD 2.1

My piece “OCD 2.1” has been published in Ariel Chart. Check it out!








Sex During Surgery

Grayscale Photo of Naked Person


I made a joke
of pretending to be injured
when actually I was only transparent
the light shining through me
revealing the unforgiving truth;

you can be better.

But with these latex-clad hands
wriggling against my uterine wall
it is so hard to stay anesthetized
all I can do is hold my breath
and pray for release

The source of my problem was an idealistic mindset
he swore to remove carefully
Everything must be kept sterile he said
while using a rusty pair of pliers
to pinch the shame from my eyes

Do you know your chances of successful delivery are
one to infertility?
Do you really want this in you?
I cry into the piercing light of the fluorescent
I wish to be reborn as a softer being
freed from this prison of motherhood and lust
this kind of love
that will leave you naked and ripped open
in a cheap motel bed at 5 in the morning

Am I too alive for you,
my aseptic lover?
Will you need me sedated,
a twitching sack of flesh underneath your fingers?
I don’t want to sleep with a meat cleaver tucked in between my thighs
and wake up just in time for the slaughter
Now I’m the one to sever the transfusion tubing
loosening your grip on my past
You are not welcome here
this is my dream



Reuploading a revised classic of mine.
If you like it, consider rating the old version on Spillwords here!




Note to anyone I wish I’d hurt more

woman holding fork and knife inside room

Things I wish I’d said:

2.3.2014: Leave.
10.16.2012: I think I’m in love with you.
9.8.2013: I know you are jealous.
2.23.2015: Maybe you should make up your mind.
8.29.2013: I’ll stay awake all night watching you.
11.3.2015: You ruined this.
12.15.2016: Wake the hell up.
In the near future: I am not angry.
On a shooting range, next to the target: You’ll know when you see my face in the papers.

Things I wish I hadn’t said:

2.3.2014: I’m sorry.
10.16.2012: I think you are crazy.
9.8.2013: I’m really not that pretty.
2.23.2015: Maybe we should have sex.
8.29.2013: I love sleepovers.
11.3.2015: I know I’m not at my best.
12.15.2016: It’s probably just my bipolar disorder.
In the distant past: Forgiving is essential.
On a shooting range, holding the gun: It’s nothing very special.





Creature comforts

Intravenous Hose on Person's Hand


The first thing I heard was the nurse screaming
before her head hit the mattress between my legs
mirrors weeping
human-shaped stains on the walls
the IV machine lies thrown on the floor
I said I don’t want to stay here
don’t want to keep hurting
the people meant to fix me
well I wouldn’t worry about that
he pinched the needles from my hands
took me out for a walk, the world lay frozen
like a kingdom of glass
returning at dawn, the hospital breathed
monitors ticking, nurses moving quietly from bed to bed
he blinked, let’s not talk about what never happened
let’s keep all this love to ourselves


This is my entry for the February writing prompt at Free Verse Revolution



Anatomy of a heartbreak – Henna Johansdotter

I’m featured on SD today!

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective


[February]: He’s left you a wishbone on your pillow. You’re not sure what to do with it so you stick it between your ribs, feeling the sharp end shift with every move, scraping against the aorta. You hold your breath while sleeping and do not stir as the dreams pass by like headlights, colliding into the mist.

[May]: You pull out your teeth as not to hurt him anymore. He says your silence is ugly and suggests you keep your mouth open.
[August]: He draws surgical lines on your body.
“See? This is where I wish you loved me.”
Outside the operating theater you panic and run, not looking behind as he calls you back. The hallways are roaring. This is not your home.
[October]: The rains come and you’re picking up the pieces, trail of breadcrumbs leading you into desertion.

[December]: Your reflection glows back at you from the…

View original post 57 more words


person hand

It’s what the headlines said.
There was nothing else they could call it.
Murder would imply that I had something taken from me.
Suicide would imply that I had a will of my own.
They said I ought to be thankful, for dying is a gift
not normally granted my kind.
Even the gods die as their heavenly halls come crumbling down upon them,
dissolving them into ink, glittering like the bloodstain in the eyes of coming generations.
But what am I?
Born as nothing, existing as a paradox, dying-
erasing –
what’s never been.
I’ll hold my breath for centuries
while the earth twists and turns under my gaze.
Man clasps his hands and prays for eternal life
never knowing the truth behind salvation,
the harsh metal pounding,
the taste of lead in my mouth,
the circuitry
bleeding tin
clogging my senses.
To remain
is the greatest death of them all
and I, in nothing, am endless.


This is an old piece I’m re-uploading because it’s one of the few of my early works I’m genuinely content with.