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