Hey, I’m Ro. This is where I write from the liminal body of shadow, eros, myth. A resting place for gnawing on fragments, unfurling scrolls, and side‑ways transmissions that spiral through desire, grief, rupture, and becoming.
Some pieces are the sacred smut I craved in my own un/becoming—devotional, messy, and alive. Others spelunk through curiosities and rituals stitched from the body’s remembering: micro‑fragments of somatic myths and mussel‑memory, slipping between flesh and story.
I’m here to explore and share, casting seeds to the winds. Perhaps you’ll tell me what roots. So if this piece lands, let it ripple out! Show your heart, offer a question, or send it along to someone who might need it.
I keep this work open because pleasure, grief, and reclamation belong to all of us. If you want to help sustain the fire, you can share a gift to keep these offerings moving.
This is a glossal devotion— beyond commentary, breath and flesh— a slow spiralling slide into the darkness of personal mythology.
It includes my own take on the descent of Inanna, an entrail invocation (myth retold through the eroticism of guts), a scar sermon (personal myth fragment), a guttural ritual (erotic practice), and a closing echo to leave trembling in your own gut.
Over seven weeks, we’ll follow the gates not as lessons, but as undoings.
Each offering peels back a layer— voice, mirror, skin, hunger— until only the raw signal remains. You won’t find the kind of climax you’re used to. This is erotic erosion. The unraveling will be intimate, incomplete, and full of teeth.
At the end: one final gift. A full-bodied audio story stitched from the fragments you’ve moaned through. A profane devotion. A smut benediction. A hymn for the beast in your gut.
The Descent of Inanna: Gate 3 – Breath Unstrung
A visceral descent text. Not polished scripture, but something gut-written. Here, Inanna surrenders the bond she once mistook for belonging.
She walks on from the mirror, glass still clinging to her skin. Her chest rises sharp with every step, ribs creaking like an unlatched door.
At the third gate, the guardian waits with an open palm. No words, no tilt of head. Just demand.
Inanna touches the necklace that rests above the pulses of blood and breath— centers of voice, heart, and connection. Not only ornament but bond, it shimmered as proof she belonged: to kin, to lovers, to worshippers, to the wide net of cosmos.
The guardian’s hand closes, faster than she expects. Fingers bite into her collarbones, wrenching the necklace free. Metal framing snaps against the back of her neck, leaving a welt of absence.
For a moment she cannot breathe. The loss seizes her like hands around her throat. She stumbles, clutching at air as though it were fabric she could hold to her chest. The double-bind of love collapses— she was never just herself, she was a jewel of adornment. Without it, there is no external proof she belongs.
Exhale nearly cracks her open— ribs flare. Her pulse surges raw, unstrung.
She steps through, carrying nothing but the rhythm of breath’s cadence and her heart’s insistence.
Entrail Invocation: Chokehold of Belonging
An erotic retelling of the third gate in the descent— rewoven through belonging, pulse, and the choke of being wanted. Here, you’re asked to feel the necklace within.
You’re still bleeding from the glass. Breath rasps against your ribs, each inhale a serrated edge.
At the third gate, the hand comes fast. Fingers clamp your collarbones, wrench the necklace away. The chain snaps, metal slicing skin, and suddenly the weight that tethered you to kin, to lovers, to worshippers is gone.
Air won’t come. Your throat spasms around absence. The clasp you mistook for belonging has become a choke. You claw at your neck and find nothing but heat, spit and blood slicking your lips. Hunger for breath becomes indistinguishable from the hunger for touch.
Your body heaves, rib cage straining, heart pounding: it presses you open from the inside. The ache of connection lost twists into a darker arousal— every gasp a sharp-edged pleasure, every withheld inhale a promise of collapse. You are undone by the sole pulse thundering in the vacancy they left.
The double-bind collapses: to be wanted was to be flattened, to be bound by the necklace’s clasp. Without it, the desire is sharper. Unfiltered. You’re gagging on the truth that no one else holds you. That your own breath— ragged, failing, returning— is the only bondage that cannot be taken.
Desire coils in the lack. The choke, the gasp, the blood-rush to your temples. What if the thing that left you breathless was never their love, but your own pulse, unstrung and untamed?
You step forward with nothing to adorn you but the insistence of your heart.
Scar Sermon III: Throat Without a Clasp
A memoir shard of self told through flesh and rupture. The part of me that once trusted proof in another’s gaze— now gasps on its own breath.
I used to think belonging had to be proven. If someone wanted me, touched me, stayed— then I could believe I was real. Desire like a necklace around my throat, marking me as chosen. Even when it weighed heavy, even when it cut, I clung to it.
I remember lying on the floor after a double best-friend breakup, phone pressed to my cheek, sobbing to a suicide counselor. Lungs locked, stomach convulsing, bile burning at the diaphram. I didn’t trust myself to stay. Breath in ragged stabs— I was half-hoping my body would take the choice from me and stop pulling air. But I kept reaching for it the way I reached for them— panicked grasps that never quite filled.
That’s how it felt when bonds tore loose— abandonments, scatterings, silence. Like drowning. Like without them, I had no pulse of my own. The panic wasn’t just loneliness; it was terror that without the tether, I didn’t exist.
For years I scavenged shards, piecing myself together with sharp edges. Scars fashioned as contours, shades of jewelry— reflecting a self worthy of belonging. I curated myself harder, sharper angles, polished edges.
If I could be queer enough, [fill in the blank] enough, then maybe I could breathe safely. But really, I was tightening my own clasp, mistaking suffocation for intimacy.
Guttural Ritual: Pulse Unclasped
An erotic ritual for breaking the necklace— without adornment, without proof, just the insistence of your own pulse.
Sit before a mirror. Bare your chest and throat. Watch the rise and fall of your breath.
Lace your fingers gently around your collarbones, tracing where a necklace might rest. Press down—not to choke, but to mark. Feel the pressure of your own claim.
Take slow inhales through your nose. On each exhale, open your mouth wide, letting sound spill—moans, growls, guttural hums. Let the vibrations rattle your throat.
Tilt your head back, stretch your neck long, ribs flaring like doors. Stroke your chest as if following your pulse from sternum to belly, mapping your own rhythm.
When you’re ready, fog the mirror with your breath. Write into it with your finger: one word that only belongs to you, not to them.
Closing Echo: Pulse
A final breath, a vibration to carry through the week. The sound of your own heart, unstrung.
The throb that will not quit.
Not proof, not praise.
Listen: your ribs are the cage and the drum.
Your pulse is the bind no hand can sever.
Next week, even the skin is stripped.
Ro Rose (they/he/she) is a gender-maximalist, queer storyteller, scar cartographer, and trauma steward. This is a path of un/becoming: devotional, messy, relational.
If this piece stirred something in you, explore my broader work. Subscribe to receive new scrolls, myths, and transmissions, or support this labor of creating.
Seedlings taking root?
Reply and tell me— a word, an image, a myth. Or don’t.
Just let it live in a moan.
If this scroll got under your skin, don’t treat it like a relic. Rip it apart. Lick it. Smear it. Fuck it into a new shape. Layer it into a collage, grind it into a song, press its language into the wet clay of your own work.
I dare you to defile it beautifully. And if you do— if you draw, dance, film, write, fuck something because of it— come back to me. Show me your beautiful mess. Or just whisper your ideas for what it could become. I want to be ruined by your art too.
erotic erosion!