helena pantsis

aspiring writer out of melbourne, australia


bio

Helena Pantsis is a writer, feminist, student, and avid lover of the unexpected. Specialising in the study of psychology, Helena values raw and uncensored writing, with an emphasis on self-expression and commentary on the social and political climate. A lifelong writer and reader, she’s been scrawling drivel onto paper for over a decade from her home in Australia's south-east.


portfolio

published works

thisis(not)thewayidie

------------This is not the way I die. I’ve seen it in the cards; in the stars; in the lines on my palm, with the gun at my head and the noose ‘round my neck — I can’t be scared, this is not my death. I’ve been here before, I live through it each time. With your hands on my throat, with the arrow in my eye. With the knife in my gut, with the pills down my throat. I’m not worried at all, this is not how I go.

------------So lower your blade, chop me up limb from limb, watch me bleed til I’m empty, I’ve been here; I’ve lived. Man cannot stop me, he’s tried and he’s tried. His fists and his weapons, his games and his lies. So standing above me, at the dirt where I lie, make a list in your head and know this is not how I died.

Wiccan wo(man)

It was the sting of the razor against red painted legs,
poltergeist scars burning at the echo of trimmed hairs.

Witch rituals of evening hour;
forward ageing ladies made non-linear at request.

Their hair, their nails, their egos cut to reverse the workings of time
while their red raw flesh stews in cauldrons - she is leftovers (delicious).

Feast your eyes on
fraud laughs, pseudo smiles, mock realities.

It was the sting of his disgust on her black-cat materiality.
Wiccan woman you walk
------------------------talk
------------------------move
------------------------act
------------------------------bloom too much like man.

i’m 16 years old and i’m telling my mother that i’m afraid to leave the house and that all my relationships are falling apart and that i can’t remember the last time i didn’t dread going to school and she’s 56 and she tells my dad she’s miserable and her life feels empty and she hates to see herself in the mirror because of the weight she’s gained and the wrinkles by her eyes and he says

“don’t worry, this happens to everyone at your age”

Floorboard afternoon and the hazy light of dawn

The ocean is as clear as it has ever been when I’m wearing my spacesuit and standing on the precipice of the moon; bungee cord tether, footprints the shape of unwinged rocket ships. My mother is glowing and the solar system has started spinning on an alternate axis—it is the chalk outline of a million things. Fairy dust, and glitter on my tongue, cheese grater satellite. The sky is as clear as it has ever been in my nylon log cabin; back against varnished soil floors and the light of the tent next door. The fire is lit and it is the smell of my father’s smile. Ozone ceiling coloured blue I have learnt to feel the lure of the untouchable and it touches like sandpaper against the back of my ankles (Achilles would cower) a stronger man would concede. My brother’s mouth opens and it splits his jaw, his head falling back, a level surface of eyes and teeth, and a recording of my parents’ screams air like a radio siren: you can do anything. The world is as clear as it has ever been; shellfish planet in my oversized hands, cricked neck, and stranger things, and in the moment, I’m inclined to believe them.

Chef's Special

Season well this wound of mine;
Salt and pepper and dill—divine!
Boil for a minute, freeze for an hour
umami, sweet-salt, bitter, sour

Call me sous, though I can’t cook
Instead I carve pockets in flesh to hook
------------------ the reader
------------------ the audience
------------------ the customer—oh waiter!

I’ve burnt it, again
Undercooked it, once more
Blue bandaids strewn across the kitchen floor

My hair is on fire
My blood’s in the soup
The people are leaving

------------------ The stain on my hat:
------------------ Mussolini’s salute

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