All Scorpios Have Scorpio Tattoos
By Sophie Saint Thomas

When pain is what you’re fed you begin to crave it.
I had to go to Hell to help, but hail Hecate
For feeding me forbidden fruit to remind me of joy.

I found myself in a new kind of pain
One from expanding, and creating
Rather than suffocation, and I found the heart to ask for you.

I hear about your life and wish I was there
As we were both paying our dues, over-taxed at times.
Yet I’m thankful for my debt.

As I wouldn’t be sitting here,
Whining about dreams that became so true they seem mundane.
With you as my perfectly evil sidekick, doing the same.

Until I taste your body, you make me laugh,
I do something absurd, you don’t make me feel bad.
We hold each other’s hand, with Scorpio tattoos,

And realize that the taste of joy actually ain’t that bad.


Queen of Swords

They say that revenge is a dish best served cold
But by the time I was cool again
I had lost my appetite
And all I wish for you is joy


The Bride Walked Down the Aisle to Bowie
By Sophie Saint Thomas

They say they want to watch a horror movie
But then want to fast-forward all the scary parts

They say they like it when I’m dirty
But can only handle it in one room in the house

I need a real babe
Someone who can lick my tears and let me squirt in their mouth


By Sophie Saint Thomas

Made my deadline
Canceled a date
Fucked all night
Slept in way too late

Pretty on Instagram
Too much in real life
Taking medication as instructed
“Is this what I want in my future wife?”

Showed up for a friend
Never got your call
Anal Queen and Ice Queen
Maybe I can do it all

A Goth Stoner’s Love Letter
By Sophie Saint Thomas

When I die
Plant Northern Lights on top of my body
And care for the plants as much as you cared for me
When the buds are ready
And I am bones
Smoke them under a clear night sky
So I can make you feel high one more time
And know
When you see a shooting star
That’s me

Messy Bitch
By Sophie Saint Thomas

Don’t you dare shower
Before you throw me on the bed
Fuck off with that deodorant
Your armpits are where I cradle my head

I want to taste your sweat, your cum, your blood, and your tears
Inhale you like cocaine and toss back my hair
While we fuck on the floor
Of my messy ass lair

I want to feel fucking disgusting
and to fall asleep with a mouth that tastes bitter
Promise that our love will be anything but tidy
Just like spilled glitter


It’s Just Murder
By Sophie Saint Thomas
Originally published in Why nICHt? Literary Magazine

You left me on the street like a pile of garbage
And when I finally saw you again, you held a python in your hands

I wish you to know my pain
Not because you cut me so deeply
But because your lack of empathy frightened me
And that was not who fucked me, with such passion we scared away Death
And the art on your walls came alive

I loved you, and your demons and your violence
Not in spite of them
But because I loved all of you
And will
Always and forever
Reminded by the mark of the devil on my left hand

But when faced with one night of my blood
You judged me from your castle as I sobbed in my crown of wildflowers
And built up walls too high for my bloody feet to climb

I scream in anger at your wealth
From my crooked apartment and cheap couch
Trying so hard not to hate myself for the ways I must share my poor soul to survive
And you for never being able to understand

The screams turn to sobs
Puddles of Scorpio sadness
Thrashing oceans crawling with crabs

For the secret within all my tears and blood
Dissolving anger
Releasing sadness
Is only love
And I forgive you for all of it


The Libra
By Sophie Saint Thomas

You turned away and got into a cab, not an Uber, but a real yellow one.
And I understood why so many men wrote songs
Describing how a woman’s hair looked as she walked away.

I thought it would be the last time I ever saw you, but no, you returned.
With heart-wrenching reasons and a love letter with an offer to David Bowie.
And for a few weeks longer, we danced, always past my bedtime.

The last time I saw you was at the Chelsea Hotel.
We held hands and watched gay boys fuck women using strap-ons
And then went to a diner for late-night eats.

You stated that no one
Who wanted any sort of traditional life
Belonged in New York City
And then walked away again.


By Sophie Saint Thomas

It’s all true.
Satan is real.
You’re being cheated on.
Your psychiatrist is pushing meds on you for profit.
Your ex is having really, really good sex.
Cats know secrets.
Your parents are disappointed in you.
Aliens exist.
You’re going to get herpes.
Tattooed chicks are great in bed.
Everyone will choose themselves over you.
Your apartment has cockroaches.
And you’ll totally die alone.


Solar Eclipse in Capricorn
By Sophie Saint Thomas

It happened.
The thought of you bored me.
And I knew I was finally out of love poems (about you).


By Sophie Saint Thomas

I will fuck you like it’s the last time I’ll ever see you.
I will break your heart with love letters.
I will destroy your heart-shaped glasses by sobbing for reasons unknown.

I will inspire you to create art.
I will change your definition of sex.
I will let you down when you learn the emotional price of my powers.

I will encourage your sacred individuality.
I will feel used.
I will reveal that I’m a human and not a goddess and I will freak you out.


Trust Issues
By Sophie Saint Thomas

I love Nick Cave.
He provides me deep comfort in how his voice and lyrics suggest he would befriend the bats that flap their wings within my chest
Rather than being terrified of them like so many others.

Do you think we can trust him?
Do you think he really means it? Or is he just a brilliant and tortured artist with hundreds of scorned lovers listening and mocking him for the ability to preach to the hearts of the hungry while living in a hypocritical manner?

Fine, this marijuana is beyond the point of medicinal.
I want a Klonopin.
I trust no one, but I want to believe.


Dating in Brooklyn
By Sophie Saint Thomas

The most romantic thing the Virgo ever did was disclose his herpes status.
That type of honesty is hard to find.
He still left me for a 25-year-old communist model with a Longchamp bag who is “far beyond her age.”

The Libra ghosted me and broke my heart
But then she showed up at my birthday party with the most romantic hand-written love letter I’ve ever received.
And then ghosted me again after this queer orgy at Hotel Chelsea.

Dude I was there on an assignment because somehow the job sex writer exists
And that was awkward as fuck
When I ran into that Aries fire breather I banged at the Moulin Rouge-themed sex party.


Water Signs
By Sophie Saint Thomas

My emotional behavior
Acts like a floodgate
To prevent me from turning into a deadly tsunami.

And you dear
With your carefully constructed walls
Shall one day drown
With a bloated face, full of words you were too terrified to say.


By Sophie Saint Thomas

Oh, honey, you taste sweet like Adderall.
I’ll swallow it all.
Give me your powers, sugar.

We can do anything, you and I.
Build a life, a business; it doesn’t matter where.
Together we’re supervillains.

It’s so fun to pretend that consequences don’t exist and highs last forever.
But there’s always the crash.
Time to smile for the cameras and find a new pill.


False Eyelash Wishes
By Sophie Saint Thomas

Don’t ask me to marry you after you cum.
Incantations in the glow of orgasms cast spells,
And my imagination can turn a cage into a castle.

I found your surprised reaction upon learning of my sensitive nature heartbreaking.
You assumed that because I’m bold; I’m also incapable of fear?
Damn. This whole time I thought you knew I was a complex human being.

Thank you for reminding me that your worst fears do come true:
The map gets lost, and the nest egg breaks.
Phew. I forgot how fun it is to fly free.


Ride or Die
By Sophie Saint Thomas

I’m your loyal Scorpio.
Your ride or die,
I’ll keep your secrets if you keep mine.

Remember how I closed my eyes in pleasure as I rode you?
I think I kept them closed too long,
And became blind.

Because it took me too long to see that
That this road we were on was a one-way street.
For I betrayed myself, just as much as you betrayed me.

It’s okay, to a fault, I forgive.
I know the lies you told me, you also told yourself.
I take Ambien — but how do you sleep?


By Sophie Saint Thomas

It’s a god damn miracle
That the universe created a drug
That even the sickest and the saddest and the most self-destructive and the reckless
can’t overdose from


The F Word(s)
By Sophie Saint Thomas

I used to sleep with a knife under my bed,
but I only ever hurt myself.
It scared the hell out of partners who didn’t understand.
I wanted something sharp to hold onto as I took flight and escaped.

It happened years ago, but still, sometimes
I consider buying an ax to sit next to my nightstand.
If I told the hardware store clerk what happened,
I wonder if like me, he’d freeze.

Once a former lover gave away my sword after the breakup,
and I felt so angry and betrayed.
Because fleeing finally exhausted me, and being frozen got boring.
I wanted to move and was ready to fight.


The Truth About Red Roses

By Sophie Saint Thomas

Those shelves you bought at the perfect day at Ikea
(You didn’t fight at all).
Won’t be put up until three years and two relationships later.

You won’t end up getting herpes
from the “high-risk” partner who has them.
But you’ll catch a cold sore from a kid cuddling you in church.

What no one tells you about fucking on a bed of red roses,
is that they bleed into the sheets.
When you wake up the room looks like a murder scene.



By Sophie Saint Thomas

May you fuck the god of all your enemies,
and sleep peacefully in an ocean of your own creation.

May all your ghosts be beautiful ones,
and remind you of the love that lives in a single grain of sand.

May you use a paintbrush to turn your pain into art,
and be the decorator of your own temple.

May you remember me as a goddess,
and forgive me for my human blood and tears.

May you fly like a bat through the dark,
and scare away the unworthy while dancing as you please.


Glam Psycho Bitch

By Sophie Saint Thomas

I don’t snort pills anymore;
I swallow the ones my 5th Avenue psychiatrist gave me.

I don’t call myself names anymore;
I choose beautiful lovers who consensually call me a whore for me.

I don’t slice myself open anymore;
I lie back and pay my plastic surgeon to use her scalpel on me.

I don’t run and hide in the shadows anymore;
I watch those who have wronged me do so should they pass by me.

I don’t hate myself anymore;
I let those envious of my success take care of that for me.