From an early age, Sophie Jupillat pursued her love for writing and music: at the age of eight, she wrote her first poem and she has been writing poems, novellas, novels and plays ever since. She started composing at the age of 13 and now has 30+ orchestral works under her belt. She enjoys innovating her art and seeking inspiration from the richly eclectic world around her. She studied writing and music at Rollins College. Sophie‘s diverse works have been featured in Scriblerus, The Halcyon, Festival Writer, Cahoodaloodaling, Art Saves Lives International, Masque and Spectacle, Perspectives and Rocky Mountain Revival.

A Prose Poem

By Sophie Jupillat

 

You asked me once if I’d ever lied to you. I said No never, but that was an obfuscation, a mask, simply put, a dirty lie. A lie for a lie you told me, many many years ago. I let the hideous serpent of fear worm its way into my confidence, my morality, oh sanct morality I let crumble in haste. Years and years ago, I went through your things, searching, hunting, seeking, like a famished bloodhound, for proof of infidelity. I let the fog of temptation call to me, thick and coy, cloying. Find me, it said, search my every depth. I walked to the metro of paranoia–  soot and grime under my fingers: flickering, dimming, fluorescent lights of my conscience hushed– skeptical death closing its eyes.  The metro is empty, there are no witnesses to embarrass me. Oh, the silence is unnerving. Dirt, gravel and soil deface my feet and I walk on to find that proof, the proof that you may have hurt me!  That fog of sinful righteousness wraps around me like a shroud, blindfolding me to the trust I have forgotten. Wanting, but not, I walk on, chill air around me stroking my skin, the muscle that is my heart, making it pebble with horror. I let the fog of your potential deceit suffocate me, I can hear the distant train of chaos down the metro, whistling, gargled, overpowered by the crumpled papers of dreams scribbled and scratched out, blowing dejectedly down on the rails. Breathing in stale ashes, I search, not seeing, only guessing, at the aroma of car grease, of the sickening smell of greasy food, an obscene opulence taunting me. Trail to your lies. In my metro of paranoia, I unknowingly slept with another lover– fear disguised as jealousy, he whispered salacious shadows into my pysche, tying my limbs with invisible ropes. Should I believe you? I asked him, wanting to find my way to you. Acrid, bitter guide, spiteful lover. I stop listening, untie myself by myself, all alone. There is no train in the metro. You never lied to me after all. After all…. I only broke your trust and invaded your privacy. I lied to you to protect myself. I cannot let fear become my lover again. So I stub out the cigarette of sweet, addicting trepidation, crumbling it, pulverizing it to a nub, with a corona of meaningless ash as my farewell. There is no metro anymore.