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An offering of sacred smut & somatic myths. Created by Ro Rose | @queerlyfluid
Sacred Smut & Somatic Myths: Threshold
Sovereign Rot | Creative Documentation
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Sovereign Rot | Mythic Descent Scroll
Sovereign Rot | Descent of Gate 2
Sovereign Rot | Descent of Gate 3
Sovereign Rot | Descent of Gate 4
Sovereign Rot | Descent of Gate 5
Sovereign Rot | Descent of Gate 6
Sovereign Rot | Descent of Gate 7
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A visceral descent text. Not polished scripture, but gut written. Here, Inanna crosses the final threshold: not by closure, but by dissolution. What remains is tone, not form.
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music by Alamin Hossain
Read The Full Transcription: A Rewriting of the Descent of Inanna
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She reaches the seventh gate. There is no guardian, only the hush that follows exhale, the stillness before the next breath dares to begin.
Her robe is torn away. Not slipped. Not offered. Torn. Nothing covers her now. No ornament, no measure, no name. This is not adornment stripped, but something more intimate. The robe was not just fabric, it was a silhouette. A shape. Wind grazes what had been hidden. Skin meets air, not for the first time but for the first time without story. The gate does not open. It vanishes.
There is no doorway now. No lintel. No wall. Only a seam of sensation, trembling at the edge of presence. She steps forward, not with certainty, but because nothing holds her back. Not a step, really. A slip into exhale. A shift in weight. A surrender of footing.
And then, not falling but unfastening. Not silence. Not end. A resonance stretched beyond the shape of her body.
She leaves nothing behind but the wake, unending*.* It becomes echo, her own resonance refracted.
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An erotic retelling of the seventh gate—where Inanna surrenders her robe: the final garment, the last silhouette. Without it, she is exposed not as essence, but as reverberation. What remains is not form, but frequency. No edge. No end. Just wave.
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music by Ribhav Agrawal
Read The Full Transcription: Entrail Invocation
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You’ve barely stepped to the gate when it happens. Not beyond it. Not through. The moment unravels at the edge— right where threshold and identity used to meet. You don’t see it happen. The robe resists, then tears. It’s taken, not dropped. Doesn’t slip from your shoulders like fabric. It catches. Snags. Clings. Then rips. The weave of it pulls your skin with it, catches in your armpits, drags across your ribs. Not a clean break. No final sweep. Just threads pulling loose, some still tangled in your hair.