Sophia Maciel
Bio
I'm just an aspiring writer that likes to write slam poetry, but is too anxious to get on a stage and speak it.
Stories (5/0)
A Crack in Space
In my college English class, we had to write an essay on an essay written by Wells Tower titled "Who Wants to Shoot an Elephant?" It’s about people hunting elephants, and trying to come up with ways to justify killing them. In the end, the author concludes that he does not know what the right answer is, to kill or not to kill. Now let’s put aside the reasons they listed for killing them, like how they are destroying the environment by tearing down trees. At the end of the day, these hunters were killing for pleasure, not to make the world a better place. Here’s a quote from Wells Tower, “When an elephant keels over, its friends sometimes break their tusks trying to get it to stand up again. They bury their dead. They bear grudges against people who’ve hurt them, and sometimes go on revenge campaigns. They cry.” These graceful, humanlike animals are roaming the Earth, and there are people that brag about knowing where to put the bullet. But I’m not surprised. I mean, we kill humans, right? We kill our own kind. So of course we will kill something that reminds us of ourselves. The best of all, they take pictures with their trophies, smiling like they were just reunited with an old friend. How weird would it be if we went to funerals and took a selfie with the dead body in the casket? Now what about showing up to the funeral of the person we murdered and taking a picture with them in their casket? “Oh man, instagram is gonna get a kick out of this.”
By Sophia Maciel6 years ago in Poets
To My Future Daughter
To my future daughter. If a man doesn’t understand that you are human, stand as tall as a Goddess and laugh in his face 'til your stomach feels like rocks. Take one of those rocks and throw it out the window. It will hit someone better than him. Do not ever let a man raise his voice at you if he has cut off your tongue. If he has cut off your tongue, take his as a replacement and watch him choke on the blood before walking away. If a man raises his fist at you, wrap his hand in bubble wrap and ship it up his ass. The world will try to shrink you, stomp on the world. The world will try to put you in a box, decorate the box and use it as storage for your belongings instead. If a man asks you if you’re on your period, punch him in the face and ask him if his nose is bleeding. If a man catcalls you, meow very loudly until he leaves. If someone makes you feel bad for crying, put salt in their contact solution. If a man tells you to smile more, replace his toothpaste with vagisil. If a teacher doesn’t let you go to the bathroom, crinkle the tampon wrapper next to their ear. If you see any of these things happen to me and all I do is turn into stone, call me out on it. Tell me I am not the mother you need. Tell me I am weak. Tell me, “If you cannot stand for yourself, how can you expect me to?”
By Sophia Maciel7 years ago in Poets
Tombstone
My body is like a tombstone. Like all of the bodies that have left me. Like all of the me’s that have left me. All of the me’s are dead. Some haven’t even been buried yet, some haven’t been saved, some are 6 feet deep trying to crawl their way back out. I can feel the hands crawling up my throat and I cough up dirt. What do you follow when your heart is in a grave? I chisel RIP into my hips and no blood comes out. I wonder if that means I am the body waiting to be buried. I cremate myself so the wind will take me where I need to go. But now I am in multiple places, lost in California and Wisconsin. Stuck on a plane and inside a bathroom stall in Denver. In a meadow far away and taken under by ocean tides. I wonder if there’s a new and better me somewhere else, whole and happy. I wonder if she found our heart. I wonder what she decided. I wonder if she bleeds. I hope she bleeds but I hope she never finds out if she does. I hope I reach my final form before dying. I hope I am not stuck as this dust storm. I hope this dust storm is not my death, because that’s what it feels like. If this is my death, please make sure the rest of the bodies get buried. Don’t confuse those bodies for me, I already had funerals for them long ago. Have my funeral on top of a hill where the wind is strongest so you can hear my voice whispering. Go where there are lots of dead leaves so I can write you a message. Do not cry, for I am already drowning in an ocean somewhere. Do not give me flowers, because this is not beautiful and I don’t want to watch another thing die. Simply hang up the wind chimes, and listen.
By Sophia Maciel7 years ago in Poets
