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[sophosoterica]

this was what the rot poem i wrote recently was relating back to <3

I realize I am rotting. 

The fruit of my labors 

Is but my own being,

And my orchard’s acres

Have become untended

As I begin to cough up

The remains of my insides

A corpse cursed to erupt

While still living. I fear that no one

Will taste the apple of my eye

And embrace it. 

That my lungs will heave and sigh

For no one is around to taste it.

That no one will be the cherry on top,

They’ll just see the lemon

And I’ll be forced to stop

And decompose, right then and there,

Because no one will ever bite into me

And enjoy me for whatever part they like

As long as it is me and not some other, prettier sight

Of someone else they really wanted

Like some fruit from their old friend’s ground

Or feel the juice drip and not feel disgusted

That I cannot hold myself together without making a sound

At least nature will take her hands 

And embrace each organ

As my insides fall out

As my ribcage opens

At least she will take them and make them her own

Absorb them back into the earth 

They will at least feed the seeds others have sown

My wood will warm them at their hearth

As they share what I was cursed

To witness and to see

While deep down knowing

I’m too rotten to ever be.

[sophosoterica]

I am 10. I have never once cared about my hair in my life, but as it gets longer and my patience shortens, I begin to dream of shaving it all off. I do not consider how other people would treat me. 

I am 11. My hair shines gold from hours in the sun, and soft with the care my mother works into it as she braids my hair for bed. I haven’t realized it yet. 

I am 12. I stare at the photo of myself on the library ID card and wonder when I got so beautiful.

I am 13. I stare at myself in the mirror and wonder when I got so ugly. I refuse to cut my hair for the next two years. I do not let my mother touch it. I have learned by now that there are very few things I can control in this life.

I am 14. The product of social isolation, my hair is darker and my skin is paler than ever, and yet I feel it does not come close to resembling the conflicted contrast within myself. I feel I have metamorphosed from a beautiful, unaware butterfly into a nasty caterpillar. 

I am 15. I have taken on a bitter contentedness with my appearance. I am emotionally detached from my hair, but I think if I cared about it, I wouldn’t like it very much. I slick my hair back into a low ponytail, something utilitarian and useful, like the character I want people to believe I am. It reaches my hips. Only the ends are golden blonde. And everything from my waist down is dead. 

I am 16. I cut off the ends. You don’t realize how much your hair holds memories until the memories are gone. I dream of shaving it all off again. I have care enough to dream.

[sophosoterica]

Am I strong enough to pull myself away from the people I have poured myself into, when, the last time I did so, you were the force I was so desperately trying to escape? The demon I have spent eternity villainizing in my story, for the simple act of discarding me?

I love being loved, and yet there is an enticing, martyring contentment that comes with accepting the lack of acceptance. Of loving being hated. Of hating the ones you used to love.

[sophosoterica]

I don’t even know who I am anymore. And I fear, by the time it is safe for her to come out, she will have starved to death in the famine of worthiness or suffocated beneath the weight of being known.

In the endeavor to become self-aware, I have forgotten the self to be aware of.

[sophosoterica]

And in the life I imagine, you are no longer the vessel for my worth.

[sophosoterica]

And in your sleep, you see her tongue sliding down your salivary glands as your grandiose good complex expels everything good from our lives.

And in my sleep, I pretend that I do not dream of being you and seeing me happy for once in your life.

And in the life I imagine, you are no longer the vessel for my worth.

[sophosoterica]

When AI writing bots say “make writing painless!” all I can think about is when Hemingway wrote “write hard and clear about what hurts”

[sophosoterica]

there is no life without death

but you can die without living-

and the sky may be forgiving,

but the ground is not.

and for all your faithful, sworn denial,

we both will turn to rot.

[sophosoterica]

I function,

but it's not the function I was made for.

So I wait for the nights full of darkness and rain,

where I can dream of the tolling of the tides

and allow my hunger for purpose to consume me.

[sophosoterica]

I hope you regret me. 

I hope, 

for the first time in our story,

I am not the forgotten one.

[sophosoterica]

How good it feels 

To have been pushed off the edge-

no more fear, 

it’s over. 

I hope you regret me. 

I hope, 

for the first time in our story,

I am not the forgotten one.

[sophosoterica]

I wonder how stupid I must be

When I wake up and see 

It has happened again.

I feel like Narcissus with my paper and pen, 

Staring into the puddle of your eyes

Forgetting only the beautiful die.

Convincing myself that if I could love you,

There was hope for me, too.

‘Cause I’m the pillars that are your new foundation

And as you bask in the joy of new creation

I realize all too late

That though I’m so great

And you’re so small,

The dwarf who stands on the shoulders of the tall

Sees the furthest.

And of course now, you reap a harvest,

Of which you did not earn.

And I watch your future’s cornfields burn,

‘Cause we both know who sowed the seeds,

And of course you know that fury bleeds.

But that of which I prattle now I did not know before.

And you can call me a slut and a whore

Until your very throat gets sore,

And even the new girl begins to bore,

But that won’t change a bit.

Because before any of them quit,

They drained their hearts to give you love

And oh, how we acted so above

The simple act of caring.

And now, in class you’re staring

To tell me I’ve fallen far.

For you think that being in the clouds makes you a very star.

Sure, maybe I’m a hypocrite,

With all my words and all my wit.

But at least I know who I am.

And your head you may ram

Into the world, eyes ablaze,

Climbing up the rooftops in a rabid craze,

But there’s an empty hole inside,

The one I first saw when I gazed into your eyes,

And saw my hunger for approval,

Yet ignoring my inevitable removal.

And as you scrape the world outside for something that can kill it,

You know that I’m the only knife that could ever really fill it.

[sophosoterica]

spring is a wasn't and winter was a was

and I exhale the wasted breath, because

I am not her anymore.

the dust has settled, and as I find my place

with the very same people floating in space,

I know who I will become now.

I am my own north star-

the road is long and the journey is far

but I was carved for strife.

I breathe in the air of life again.

[sophosoterica]

I am a poet because God's creation is divine.

When I try to trace the willow's spine,

With paints and canvas or needle and twine,

I find it is a mere imitation

Of what was His and never mine.

My mother told me all artists go sick.

They wilt like the char on a candle wick,

Trying to make something, anything click

Hoping to mirror our true existence

And left with nothing to which color can stick.

But He speaks in the flowers and the great oak tree.

Creation is a wonder we were cursed to see,

To create art anew I will never be free.

But words are the only human invention,

And He cannot take my voice from me.

[sophosoterica]

sorry for being mia guys i think one of my adblockers got rid of the log in button 💀. anyway more poetry coming soon hopefully! might be a bit of an awkward post schedule this month because i have ap tests to study for, but i promise i'll lock in when they're done

[sophosoterica]

in our attempt to become God,

we have forgotten what it is to be man.

[sophosoterica]

sometimes the futile battles are the only worth fighting

and the histories lost are the only worth writing

the burnt-out candle is still worth lighting

if the only things it illuminates are shadows.

and so I guess that's what I think of when I think of you

your heart so unfaithful and your mouth so untrue

and both of us lying under a sky so blue

as we taught ourselves what love meant.