Sophia Papasouliotis

Ocean

I am tired
of being told to get better. 
What are your words but 
tablets of chalk,
sticking to my throat. I’m 
choking, I’m
holding my throat, I’m 
slapping at my own 
back. Is this
the better you ask
of me? 

Is this trying?
Repentance

can’t fix me now.

Two person show 

You see the world in
black-and-white. 
I am the daughter who sprung from 
your mutated gene, birthed in 
grey. I wear misery 
like a vintage dress. 
Let me dance with you, just
Us and the TV. Bear the
weight of me-
I’m here, here I am. Let me stand 
on your toes, let me 
press and press, let me
show you what 
family is. This
is a tragedy, a play for the masses 
to laugh at our misfortunes-
our two-person show. 

Life as an ode to gravestones 

You’re better off dead. 
Better off with face (maggot-eaten)
buried in six feet of silt. 
They remember you when 
you’re dead-
fingers over a name, carved, they

really remember you. Mother, daughter, child 
of Christ. Rollers in, breakfast on the stove. 
No more of this
liar, 
hypocrite,

go to Hell. 
They love you when 
you’re dead. They
pretend they always did. They
clean you- they
dress you- they
fall in love with 
the you they (themselves)
have created

An image of you

(ode to Portrait of a Lady on Fire)


is still saturated somewhere-
between my ribs and lungs.
The same chest you held close,
loved, lived in, left. 

You invented a part of me 
that I will never know again,
the lover, the poet, 
the free. 

One day, you will be
just a sketch to me. 
But tonight,
under the moon’s dusky glow,
I remember you. 

Dog

Whistle through your fingers,
sharp and sweet like the blood
you lick from the wound with sweaty kisses. 
What is this if not desperation? Attention!
Attention! You’re desperate. 

Pain, silent,
a dog trapped beneath the worn skin of 
your chest. Barking cough, leash-yanked,
one day you’ll 
choke it out. 

Phenotype

Go ahead-
Tell me how you love to burn. 
I watch them set matches alight,
Struck against the creamy white 
Of your forearm. 
You won’t last long,
You who zips your lips. 
One day, 
Soon, 
You’ll run out.
And I’ll wait for you to 
Build your ashen body
Again. 

Sophia Papasouliotis (she/her) is a poet from Bristol, UK. You can find her on Twitter @s0phiapap