This is the crooked little workshop behind the art —
a place for unfinished poems, scattered thoughts,
ink-stained pages, visual art, lyrics, stories, fragments,
and all the strange things still becoming themselves.

Some works found here may one day grow into
finished collections of their own.
Others may remain scraps, sketches, or
wandering little creatures left exactly as they are.

This is where the roots show.

The drafts.
The late-night ideas.
The beautiful mess before the pieces

find where they belong.

So come wander through the malice.

The Malice World

Starvation

The people of this world— the makers, the healers, the working hands— are rising at last and taking a stand. Enough is enough, we finally say. But the corporations answer: It'll never be enough as long as there's more we can take away. The rich don't care for the sick or the poor. While we're hungry for food, they're hungry for more, more, more. We're drowning in debt, in disease, in despair, while they're drowning in wealth and still grasping for air. We struggle to live, th

Malice Blūm

Jun 42 min read

You're It

In summer school, the heat was mild, where Dona wore shadows, unreconciled, a hoodie draped past face and frame, invisible in all but name. She sat in corners, eyes cast low, and prayed the world would let her go. Then came a voice, both bright and near: “Tag, you’re it!”—Dona wished, not here. A boy with mischief in his grin declared a war, and drew her in. He sketched a scowl upon his thumb, and grinned like she should see the sum. She almost laughed—it cracked, then died—

Malice Blūm

Jun 42 min read

Patches

"The smell hit her first. Blood and something else underneath it. Something rotten. She noticed small crimson droplets on the floor. In the center of the living room lay Patches and Pierre. For one impossible second Susan couldn’t understand what she was seeing. The cat’s body twitched weakly beside a shattered end table, paws scraping uselessly against the floorboards."

Malice Blūm

Jun 410 min read

Woman

To him, I am just a piece of meat, a champion's boast, a sacred land conquered, a name added to a list that is expected to be long while mine is expected to be nonexistent. I know I am more, but expected to act as though I am not. I cannot be a scholar, a writer, a teacher, a healer, an activist, a woman. I am expected to be slut, mother, filthy, clean, maid, wife, woman. Eye candy with artificial colors. Dessert platter with artificial flavorings. Appliance with artificial o

Malice Blūm

Jun 22 min read

Third Eye Bloom

A trippy portrait drawn in the haze of greenhouse thunder (Mary Jane, zaza, pot, weed — whatever your fancy). It has a funny way of turning colors brighter and ideas stranger, and this piece grew out of that headspace: the third eye, the waves of color, and the dreamy expression. My kids also left their signature — a tiny red doodle on her neck — before I had a chance to put her on display. It took me so long to draw this, and when I was finally finished, I almost didn't wa

Malice Blūm

May 311 min read

Teddy Bear Puppy

My teddy bear puppy, you've fought so hard, through sickness, through injury, through every unfair card. You should have been chasing tennis balls, a Berner lounging by the fence, stealing socks, leaving muddy pawprints, living life without suspense. Instead I watched you tremble, lying down was too much pain, your giant frame still standing as your strength began to wane. Night after night I stayed beside you, counting every shaky breath, wondering if the morning sunlight mi

Malice Blūm

May 303 min read

Lucky

She tells me I’m lucky. You’re so lucky you’re pretty. You’re so lucky you have blonde hair. You’re so lucky you have blue eyes. You’re so lucky you speak with an accent. You’re so lucky you’re white. I’m so lucky? Her words root me to the earth. My heart cracks open as my daughter tells me how the girls pick apart her reflection at school. The white girls, the brown girls, the blue-eyed girls, the brown-eyed girls, the straight-haired girls, and the curly-haired girls, the t

Malice Blūm

May 292 min read

The Daughters Rise

They told us we were made to bow, to bite our tongues and pray; but every scar that marks us now sharpens our every blade. They called us wild, unfit, unclean— then turned from what we bled; they feared the power in our red, the worlds our wombs have bred. We’ve buried sisters, named and blamed, their ashes fed the ground; each stolen voice we claim as ours now rings in battle sound. We rise for those they silenced here, for those who burned and bled; their voices linger, sha

Malice Blūm

May 291 min read