Father

You cut into my flesh 

Etching a sketch in your image 

Oh Father

Why sear me? 

The warmth of your love 

Scorches my skin

If this is your heavenly embrace 

Why does it burn 

like a hellish flame? 

But when I hear you speak

I feel butterflies in my stomach

Beautiful butterflies made

Of bright shards of glass

Stained red with my blood

You tell me, Father

My body is a temple 

Is that why you allow saints and sinners alike 

Under my roof?

---

Sun 

We’ve sat in the waiting room for so long

the colorful scrubs flying past us

blur into a scene of a setting sun

I pretend the squeaks of non-slip shoes 

are seagulls hawking 

Are you awaiting a vacation 

to a padded white wall paradise?

Abuela passed it on to you

You’ve passed it on to me 

Is the affliction heritable 

or are we contagious?

Most mothers and daughters are found seated 

At the food court in the mall 

Or besides each other at a nail salon

The three of us bonded in hospital waiting rooms 

The melody of the heart monitors 

Rang a familiar tune 

Test results came back 

Your weighted heart has grown empty 

When you were young 

Your wild heart aflame

You were a bright star that sadly 

Collapsed from the pressure 

Overtaken by the gravity 

Of harsh reality

At your core, you’re empty 

A black hole replaced the space 

Where your sol once resided

I lament your discontent 

Insatiable, you’re never satisfied 

Without warmth in your veins

You’ve become cold blooded 

You gravitate to others for light

Letting them believe they’re the darkness instead 

Left to your own devices

You’d become the moon

Stone cold

Lifeless 

---

Holy

It’s been half a decade 

Since I’ve felt the rough of your touch 

Each graze graces my skin

The object of my affection

I’ll give you undivided attention

I only love myself

In your reflection 

My prophet

My savior

As you cut me like paper 

You deepen my devotion to thee 

My divine siren

You sing to me, calling my name 

I want to hold you once again 

Feel the ridges of your body 

consecrate mine 

Our time together was short but sacred 

You fit perfectly in the palm of my hand

Oh, why can’t I hold you again?

To feel my fingertips along your spine 

Your skin is flat, cool, all mine 

you’re my biggest weakness

you’re my absolute redeemer 

my achilles heel

I need no healer

I need you my dear 

You uplift my mood 

Bolster me from despair 

When I feel pushed to your edge

A smile forms on my lips 

When I first feel the tip 

Of the blade 

---

Spirits

I broke my sobriety 

With your whiskey-flavored kisses

Zero drops for 88 days

You were my relapse

I needed to cave

I had three lovers 

Only one of them stayed

Upon first taste

You were bitter 

An acquired taste 

Always needed a chaser 

You’re always hopping on a flight

You came as soon as you went 

Your actions were sour

Your sweet words masked the taste

Drinks are only sweet when they’re balanced

Together we created 

A cocktail that burned going down 

I couldn’t hold my liquor 

You were the one 

That pushed me over the edge

Sending me into a spiral 

I confused reality 

By infusing it with delusion 

Muddling reality and fiction

Your fingertips were like needles 

Embedding deep within my skin 

My sweet addiction

You’re shooting up my bloodstream 

I felt cold and empty 

But you warmed me up

Home was your hotel room 

You were glued to the bottle of whiskey

The same way I was glued to the screen

Waiting for your call 

Your baseline is inebriation

Mine is under your influence 

I told myself I just wanted to feel a buzz

But you made me blackout 

With rage 

You make excuses for drowning out your sorrows

And I excuse myself for swimming in a sea 

of potential shared tomorrows 

You were a top shelf flavor 

of self sabotage 

The high was worth 

the hangover 

Bottle empty

Comedown company gone 

Being left empty 

Feels like withdrawal 

Your cruel words

but gentle touch 

made me want to work for your approval

It made me crave the sound of your sweet nothings 

and empty promises in my ear 

Ever since you’ve left

I’ve been sleeping on the wrong side of the bed 

You’re the alcoholic

But you were my drink of choice

You were so afraid of me leaving 

That you pushed me out the door 

Heathen for hedonism 

Absinthe is your absolution 

you’ve lived a degenerate existence

But she’ll always come to save you

From yourself

Sharp tongue 

Sharp wit 

You were the blade 

I used to cut with 

I was my greatest enemy 

But you were still a worthy opponent 

Now that it’s over

I wish I never got sober 

---

Stockholm Syndrome: Weapon for Self-Flagellation

Soleil Ducusin in her poetry collection “False Idols” takes the role of the penitent confessing to the reader her proverbial sins in a poetic plea for penance. Her confessional body of work exposes her deepest vulnerabilities graphically exploring themes of obsession, codependency, self-abandonment, self-neglect, and shame. Through a tongue-in-cheek use of double entendre, play on words, repetition, and vivid imagery, Ducusin creates a haunting body of work welcoming the readers into her soul.

In “Father” Ducusin examines the complexities of faith and the destructive nature of a masochistic relationship with God. The use of religious imagery and language elicits a sense of reverence and submission. The imagery of “cutting into flesh” and “etching a sketch” in God’s image serves as a powerful metaphor for the speaker’s twisted connection to worship. Techniques such as metaphor, “my body is a temple”, and imagery, “bright shards of glass stained red with my blood”, evoke powerful and visceral emotions, showing worship can be a conduit of self-harm. The ambiguity of the final metaphor, “You tell me, Father/My body is a temple/Is that why you allow saints and sinners alike/Under my roof?”, may be interpreted as the idolatry of codependent relationships. The use of the term “Father” as a play on the traditional religious term adds a layer of irony and depth to the poem, highlighting the speaker’s questioning of her faith while longing for salvation. The exploration of faith, pain, and desperation for absolution sets a macabre tone that echoes throughout the rest of the poems in the collection.

Similarly, in “Sun,” Ducusin explores the intergenerational impact of mental health issues while the speaker is shaming herself through the admonishment of her mother.  In the start of the poem she uses the metaphor of a setting sun to convey a sense of inevitability and inheritance, “We’ve sat in the waiting room for so long/the colorful scrubs flying past us/blur into a scene of a setting sun”. The imagery of the sun setting and the waiting room blurring into a scene also reflects the blurred lines between reality and mental illness. This is solidified by the speaker referencing a potential trip to the psych ward, “Are you awaiting a vacation/to a padded white wall paradise?”. The second stanza alludes to mental illness being passed on through her matrilineal side, “Abuela passed it on to you/You’ve passed it on to me”. Her usage of the Spanish word “sol”, meaning “sun”, instead of the English word “soul” is representing her mother losing inner light, “At your core, you’re empty/A black hole replaced the space/Where your sol once resided”. Finally the mother’s mental illness manifests into a metaphor for enmeshment, making herself needed by others in a desperate attempt to fill the void, “Without warmth in your veins/You’ve become cold blooded/You gravitate to others for light/Letting them believe they’re the darkness instead”. Through further analysis of “False Idols” it can be speculated that the contempt she’s showing for her mother reflects the same contempt she has for herself.   

“Holy” delves into the narrator’s longing for a relapse of her self-harm addiction using religious language to convey a sense of devotion to the act of self-mutilation. She personifies the blade through the repetition of “my dear” and “you” which creates a sense of intimacy and obsession. The poem’s tone is deceptively reverential, deceiving the reader into believing it is sacrilegious idolization of a lover over God, “My prophet/My savior…You deepen my devotion to thee”. As the poem progresses, Ducusin gradually drops more hints that the “object” of her affection is indeed a physical object through techniques such as personification, “You fit perfectly in the palm of my hand” and imagery, “feel the ridges of your body”. The imagery of holding the blade and feeling its ridges suggests a deep connection to the act of cutting and yearning for the comfort it once provided. “Holy” creates a vivid and unsettling portrayal of self-harm addiction that perfectly lays the groundwork for the next poem demonstrating her tendency of developing stockholm syndrome for people that are detrimental to her. 

In “Spirits,” Ducusin delves into the speaker’s toxic relationship with love, using alcohol as a motif to symbolize her unhealthy addiction to a partner that is emotionally unavailable due to their addiction to alcohol. She opens the poem speaking like a recovering addict, “I broke my sobriety/With your whiskey-flavored kisses”. The poem’s structure mirrors the intoxicating effects of alcohol, beginning with the second stanza containing fragmented thoughts and images, “Zero drops for 88 days/You were my relapse/I needed to cave”. The meaning of the words chosen in the poem differ when in the context of alcohol, “You were bitter/An acquired taste/Always needed a chaser”. She continues to use metaphors likening her beloved to alcohol, acknowledging the fact that her romantic partner constantly needed to be “chased” and that he was always hopping on a “flight”. Usage of alliteration “Heathen for hedonism/Absinthe is your absolution” and “Sharp tongue/Sharp wit” reinforce the poem’s themes of pain and pleasure-seeking behavior. The imagery of being “glued” to the bottle and the screen illustrates the addictive nature of their relationship. Despite judging her lover for their alcohol addiction, the speaker realizes she is also addicted to unhealthy romantic partners, symbolizing a destructive cycle of behavior.

In conclusion, “False Idols” is a powerful and deeply moving collection that pours the reader a sip of the poison Ducusin makes herself drink. The use of vivid imagery, metaphor, and rhythm creates a powerful and immersive experience for the reader, drawing them into a world that is both haunting and beautiful. In “Father” the speaker expresses an internalized interpretation of God that hurts her through judgment and disapproval. This leads to the self-shame that she projects as vitriol towards her mother in the second poem “Sun”. The root of her addiction to self-harm is the excessive shame depicted in “Holy” that continues reoccuring throughout the poems. Although her original method of self-harm is no longer being practiced, she still harms herself through the relationships she engages in as illuminated in “Spirits”. Throughout her full body of work lies repetition of certain words, images, and motifs that take on different meanings depending on the context of the poems: God, flame, burning, blade, bleeding, and cutting. As a final play on words, the titles of her poems “Father, Sun, Holy, Spirits” is reminiscent of the familiar Christian prayer “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit”. Unfortunately for the speaker, self-persecution does not precede absolution. Her harsh word choices are the whips she is metaphorically flogging herself with.  She won’t find the reconciliation she seeks in self-degradation. Forgiveness is still the way, though she may have to seek it beyond from herself.