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Dante Nov 2020
Today, I helped my mother with her garden. I made the earth soft, I placed the seeds carefully, I added a little bit of the nutrient-rich soil. I tried to place the seeds upright in the ground. I’ve never done this before. When I ask her how I’m doing, she says I’m doing good. She says I plant them so carefully.

My wrists and back haven’t been doing very well these past few days, but I know that if I let her, my mother will sacrifice her entire body to her flowers. She’ll offer her exposed skin to the sun and her aching joints to the earth. Her muscles will cry and the tears make the earth richer.

The doctor said she needs to rest. Her knees, the bad arm, her back.
My body hurts sometimes, but all I have to do is stretch and rest and it goes away.

I have to plant the bell pepper seeds.
I have to sacrifice my own body to the sun, to the earth and the flowers. It is a duty to the selfishness of giving. I must because I want to.

What would I do if I saw you weep again? How could I bear to see anything keep you from joy for a even a single moment?
How incredible to see you after all of the sorrow. You touch the earth, you plant the seed. Every morning I walk outside to look at the flowers with you.

And this is my dark soil. This is my water.

I wake up. I see her dutifully tending to her garden. I put on my shoes.
I am the flower blooming with the love of a mother.
Dante Jul 2020
I thought I was a desert, but the chaos of my longing was water.
Water, and water, and more water.

It pained me to say it before, but now it is simply a fact—Sweetest darlings, I drowned you away from me.
actuallyautistic autistic trauma longing
Jul 2020 · 44
Black Honey
Dante Jul 2020
Wolf.
Sword with the hilt of gold.
Always muse of mine.
Ember.

I would hold you in my hands. I would let you burn me sweetly.
Sweetly, in all your darkness, in all your secrets.
I would hold your face to tame your Violence,
And love you when I could not.

Especially when I could not-- So magnificent a creature you’d be,
In all your Rage, Unbound and Roaring.

Red Hibiscus, Cherry Blossom-loved.
How sweet the dream of you.
How sweet your loving,
How sweet my ache.

O Wolf, Ember Ephemera.
I touched you with my finger, and the ghost of you still burns.

The bow scratches the string at the start of the note,
And in the cry of a violin is where I find you today.
unrequited
Dante Jul 2020
There is love in your breath
When you speak to me—
But oh, when I look at your mouth,
It is there behind your teeth;
And you clench your jaw so that none of its legs peek out.

Will you tell it to me?
Will you tell it to me like a story—
The dark thing that hides in you, amongst the wind-kissed fields of your love?
secrets love darkness
Jul 2020 · 34
(W)arm
Dante Jul 2020
“I need to get ahold of myself” I say, scolding myself for wanting (and forgetting what I’m needing).

The warmth of your arm.
The love of a friend.

I am confused in my needing, my yearning;

I have dreamt of being on the floor, and you offering your arm to me.
Yes, how whole it must feel, to be cared for with love.
How warm it is in my dream.
longing yearning friendship warmth affection love
Jul 2020 · 45
X, But Not For You
Dante Jul 2020
It gives me so much joy, to look at you.
Sometimes it’s too much, and I worry.
Is it okay?
Is it okay to feel this much joy?

Is it joy?

I don’t dream of you like that anymore.
but if I did, what would you say?

I imagine it.
“It’s okay.”
I breathe. I smile. I know it isn’t for me.
The day is still bright.
Dante Jul 2020
O,
And my longing;
I hold the Christ in my hands

And offer it to you.
love offering longing lover
Jul 2020 · 187
Becoming; Again
Dante Jul 2020
I put my voice under a light not knowing that it would burn to a crisp, and all you would hear would be the weakening growls of an animal refusing to die. I thought I had to speak to exist, when all one should ever have to do is be.
Dante Jun 2020
Who?

Who would come lay their hand on me
in the thickness of my confusion;
The thickness of my Love.

Will you offer your Hand to me
in my fog
And when home is lost to me
Will you tell me where it is?

Will you salt the wound that needs to sting before
it begins to heal,
Will you salt my wounds for me?

O mystery; Who will you be?
Will you Taste me and spit me out,
for fear of keeping a lukewarm thing in your mouth,
Your mouth, Steady with change.

Will you know I too am steady with change,
Will you know I too am an eager student?
Will you keep me in your mouth,
the days I am not burning and delicious?

Will you forget me
Will you let go of my hand
And forget me in the fog
Dante Mar 2020
¡Oh, que frustración!— hoy, creo que eres un capricho. Ayer, era tan grave e importante hablarte para destruir el silencio que causé, y mañana seguramente estaré convencido que no tienes ninguna importancia en mi vida.

Que frustración; he aquí mi solución:

Me cocí los labios para nunca hablar de ti, y las manos para nunca escribir de ti. Me he amarrado un laso en la cabeza para taparme los ojos; pero ah, que frustración, con cada solución se me presenta otro problema.

He aquí los problemas que ahora tengo:

Los labios que me cocí no me dejan cantar, así que ahora paso el día entero escuchando música, pero resulta que  todas las canciones del mundo se tratan de ti.

Las manos que me cocí juntas no me dejan escribir, y- quizás entenderás- así es como rezo. Pero ahora con las manos juntas, solo puedo rezarle a un dios. Pero resulta que no hay un ser más grande que tú.

Y es cierto que con este lazo tapándome los ojos, ya no te voy a ver; pero en esta oscuridad, inevitablemente, eventualmente, siempre me duermo, y en mis sueños te apareces.

Y cuando te veo- oh, que frustración- nunca quiero cerrar mis ojos.
Mar 2020 · 131
God Is Pain
Dante Mar 2020
PRAISE BE THE GOD THAT MADE YOUR QUIET MOUTH. PRAISE BE THE GOD THAT STRUCK YOU AT YOUR CORE, SO SHE’D COME INTO YOUR LIFE AND NURSE YOU BACK TO HEALTH. DIVINITY IS YOUR HAND THAT HOLDS HER GIFTS. HOLY IS YOUR SHARED JOY, HOLY LIKE BURNING. HOLY LIKE THE DEER STUCK IN THE FROZEN LAKE. I AM BURNING IN MY FROZEN PAIN. I AM BURNING AND I CANNOT MELT IT AWAY. HALLELUJAH, HALLELUJAH, HALLELUJAH. CHRIST IS MY SUFFERING. CHRIST IS THE MEMORY OF THE FIRST TIME I HEARD YOUR VOICE AND KNEW I WANTED TO FALL IN LOVE.
Feb 2020 · 169
Ichor
Dante Feb 2020
I want you to cut me.
I want you to see that the blood that is red with you becomes water.

I want to be opened by you. I want to be drunk by you.
Put your lips to my open wrist.
There I become ambrosia to your beautiful, godless hunger.
There I offer you what you have given me and did not know it.

With you I am the scent of blood after rainfall.
With you I am God's Lamb put on earth to be devoured.
With you. With you I am made like all holy things.

So cut me please, because I must show you.
Dante Feb 2020
My creature– My creature can only be from the Wood, from the lake in the heart of it. He must be the ember in the cabin dying by fire, he must emerge from it; and his eye must be red with passion, burning in wrath.
Indeed, my babe can only have the eye of the Wrathful Lamb.
He can only be blade. Tongue wet with Passion.
Heavy with divinity. God-defying. Nothing less. Nothing less.
Dante Feb 2020
I want to have you. I want to have you because you’ve given yourself. I don’t want to steal you from you and I don’t want to steal you from her. I don’t want to do anything less than giving you something. What can I give you? What can I give you now, as I am? I cannot even give you my truth. You speak and I am mute. You are and I die. I fell in love with your violence but called you a saint. How ridiculous I am. How ridiculous I am even when I think of you, and after all this time. There you are, thinking I must be a small thing with no eyes, and here I am, becoming blind from the sight of you in my mind’s eye. Here I am, here I am, here I am.
Dante Feb 2020
I had this big TV in front of me. No sofa. The living room was just
the computer desk, and I was using this big TV as a monitor.
The kitchen light- next to the small living room- was on, the light from the hallway behind me was on. But I kept the living room light off. The screen was bright and the night was dark. It was too bright for my eyes and the room felt like a sad, private wonderland.

I heard that song for the first time. I didn't know what to expect. As the song started, and Julian Casablanca's voice- raspy, young and confused- filled the house, I came alive. My eyes lit up, I sat up, I put my knees on the chair. I loved it. I felt like my wonderland was real. This house- this cage, it was small and miserable and magical. This dimly lit living room, empty of furniture, the sound of my neglectful mother watching TV at the end of the hall in her room. This room. This small, miserable wonderland.

It was a portal to hope. The screen, the light. It had been a year of isolation. I heard his voice, the song, and I was a child again, and all I knew was eternal wonder and hope. I wasn't consciously thinking about it all- it's hard to explain- but everything was real. I hoped for a future, and friends, and a life, and in that moment the living room and the light and my mother and her TV were real, and that future I longed for and cried for was real. Everything was real.
Feb 2020 · 286
A. Honey
Dante Feb 2020
You were sweet, yes. I won’t be the poet who compares you to honey for it, but yes. You were honey.
But not for your sweetness; honey–
Not in spite of your acid, but because of it.

You are the gods painted
in our imperfect, mortal image.

In your mortality, in your burning
In your acidic, golden eye.

Honey.



-
I wish I knew how to say it.
I wish I knew how to tell her any of it.

I wish I never would have opened my mouth, and called her perfect.
I didn't think that.
I knew she was imperfect. And I wanted to know her for it.
Feb 2020 · 124
All Gods Are Human
Dante Feb 2020
You were honey. I’ll say it unashamed—you were honey.

Not in spite of the acid,
but because of it.
Jan 2020 · 449
The Wonderlands of Earth
Dante Jan 2020
I am like her, you know.
I am like Alice;
but the flowers and the rabbit, they speak a different language.
And when the Cheshire cat
tells me his riddles, I am alone.
My eyes see his moving mouth,
and I am a creature of Death

in my burning solitude.
Jan 2020 · 116
On The Weight of Fear
Dante Jan 2020
I give my fear so it is held, and held, softy and weightless.
You hold it gently.
You hold me so gently.
Jan 2020 · 88
Room, Seventeen
Dante Jan 2020
The world comes to me again with my sunlit room. A bird is nestled on the branch outside my window. My troubled-kitten sleep. The ceiling. The pictures in the cracks. My emptiness outside of school.

Yes, divine is this space
for holy are the tears I’ve shed in it.


-
Jan 2020 · 249
My Blood, Your Sword
Dante Jan 2020
What is peace without the passions of rivalry?
Your touch on my skin without the blood that pools under your nail?

How measly your love would be
without the honeys of sin.
Jan 2020 · 140
Room, Seventeen
Dante Jan 2020
The world comes to me again with my sunlit room. A bird is nestled on the branch outside my window. My troubled-kitten sleep. The ceiling. The pictures in the cracks. My emptiness outside of school. Yes, divine is this space, for holy are the tears I’ve shed in it.
Dante Jan 2020
There was once a little fox who was born lame. Its brothers liked to play and bite and grow, and none of these things did the little fox care to know.
In the light of a setting sun, they ran and skipped, playing with each other’s tails. The lame little fox, healthy of body, albeit smaller than its brothers, stood by and watched. Its mother approaches it.

She sits next to it, watching the others play.
“Your brothers are almost ready for the hunt.” She begins, and the little fox looks at her.
“You will not survive.” She tells it, sparing them both the discomfort of looking a son in the eye while bearing such news.
The little fox does not cry.
“Will I die at the jaw of an animal?” He asks.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The mother does not answer.
The fox looks back at its brothers. He’s never liked playing with them much.
“If you hunt at my pace, will I slow you all down?”
“Yes. It will be your brothers who will die at the jaw of an animal then.”
The little fox looks on, and with a blink of its knowing little eye, understands.
“You are going to **** me.” it says.
“I must.”
“Then do not be kind to me in my taking. Lest I survive, run away, and come back a creature you will not recognize.“
The mother is calm, her response a knowing silence. The breeze is a sigh of fall. Winter soon approaching.
“**** me sooner rather than later.”

The little fox walks away (for they both know today is not his day) no doubt to take a nap in the family’s den.
If the little fox were to leave, thought the *****, it would leave tonight or tomorrow morning. She would strike then.

The foxes were all done with their play, and the mother sees them to their den.
“I will strike tonight” she thinks, decided. But when she arrives at the mouth of the den, among the chatter of the young babes was the fox’s absence, which could only be noticed by a loving mother’s gaze.

“Come, children.” Says the mother to her settling kits.
“Sleep now. We’ve God’s own wrath to prepare for.”
I’ve written this in such a way that it can have multiple meanings and endings. I’d love to hear anyone’s interpretations!
Dante Dec 2019
Trying to remain good in the eyes of the world

Is begging for forgiveness at the heel of a petulant god.
The World Wide Web.
Oct 2019 · 220
Salted Caramels
Dante Oct 2019
With every word, with every misguidance
This sharp, unbearable thing that digs into the center of me.

This sweetness that I salt ‘till it is nothing but undrinkable sea water.

This love wrapped in the ribbons of Death; almighty Death-

The end of human connection.
Sep 2019 · 236
Flores Escondidas
Dante Sep 2019
Esto es lo que siento. Esto es lo que siento. El porqué lo puedo sentir y no decir no lo sé. No entiendo y si pido explicación, sé que se me enterrarán las espinas, las espinas de esa flor— su aroma dulce, sus pétalos en la oscuridad.
Oh, que mucho arde el vino cuando no sabemos qué es.
Sep 2019 · 61
Written In Touch
Dante Sep 2019
I’m absolutely hopeless. I can’t say anything that matters with my mouth. Sometimes I can’t even write it, or say it with my eyes. Sometimes I think maybe I could say it with my hands. Maybe I could say something so tender, so terrifying and true, if you’d hold my hand. If you will, please pay attention to your fingers. I’ll write it there.
Dante Sep 2019
I don’t mean to be rude, it just comes out that way. I’m just tryin’ too hard. The moon looks full sometimes, and when I look out the window, I can’t quite see it.
I can’t quite see it.

It’s like that sometimes. There’s something beautiful. I want to reach it with words. I want the permission to hold it. But I can’t quite say it. I open my mouth, and I can’t quite say it. I’m sorry. I wish it were different.
Sep 2019 · 185
Masking
Dante Sep 2019
The compass inside me has always been fragile, broken. Do you know what happens to a child with no direction? They wear your face. I knew the grownups didn’t love me the way I was. I’ve never been loved. Not when I wore my own face.
Sep 2019 · 116
Thinks and Thoughts
Dante Sep 2019
She told me, “I think you think this”
and I said, “I don’t.”
and then I said, “I know why I thought that.”
and I thought, “I only said I thought that because I knew she thought I did.”
I thought, “I did my best to never let myself think that.”
I thought, “I’m not interested in thinking about this anymore. I’m tired. I’m just so scared of this. Always so scared.”
I thought, “I’ve done what I understood was expected of me in order to be loved. It used to be the only way I could communicate with others.”
I thought, “I want nothing more than the thrill of experiencing myself.
I thought, “I want nothing more than to be as genuine as I can be. I wish I could fix it now. I wish I could give myself to people. I wish I could be bare today.
“But I think,” I thought, “I think that will have to wait.”
Dante Sep 2019
When I wrote about beautiful strangers,
I only wrote dreams of them. Fantastic little stories. Fantasy.

I didn’t know her.

I knew I didn’t know her.
I wanted to.
Dante Sep 2019
I don’t mean to be rude, it just comes out that way. I’m just tryin’ too hard. The moon looks full sometimes, and when I look out the window, I can’t quite see it.
I can’t quite see it.

It’s like that sometimes. There’s something beautiful. I want to reach it with words. I want the permission to hold it. But I can’t quite say it. I open my mouth, and I can’t quite say it. I’m sorry. I wish it were different.
Sep 2019 · 251
Revolt In Early September
Dante Sep 2019
Summer was so good to me. But now September’s had its hands on my throat, and I’ve closed my eyes and let my arms go limp. I don’t know how I forgot to fight. The way out is to rebel. Receive your pain, let it be known in the palace of your heart, love it, become it, and return it in deafening waves.
Bouts of depression that convince you that lying motionless in the hands of death is all you can do
Sep 2019 · 451
Ephemera
Dante Sep 2019
I’m always grasping. Trying to retain some form. Painfully and desperately, I try to keep it, shape it, define it into permanence.

This longing for certainty, this anxiety and desire to be— like the statues unmoving, named and certain— to be something I know, forever, and ever and ever.

But our splendor is in our changing, in our ever shifting consciousness. The heart floods and becomes empty again. The breeze of autumn. The hot of summer. My blood on the rocks. The wound tender in infection. The scar I touch like a feather.

We are made in God’s knowing of ephemera, ever changing, ever fleeting. Undefined, and ephemeral forever, ever and ever.
Sep 2019 · 181
All The World Does Is Dance
Dante Sep 2019
I remember loving things. I remember loving the dance of leaves and their shadows. I remember loving an artist’s singing. I remember listening to the harmonies for the first time. The double voiced thing that danced with the drums and the guitars. Dancing. I remember loving dancing.
Sep 2019 · 230
The Bucket and The Fire
Dante Sep 2019
I have a fire in my heart. When I was a child, I was handed a bucket of water. “Pour it.” they told me. I knew what this meant. “No” I said. And I was overpowered, and it was sudden, and no part of me was left dry. They taught me to extinguish myself, and today I still grab the bucket, and when I bring it to my hot, fiery heart, my eyes still widen.
Sep 2019 · 506
The Lion, The Lamb
Dante Sep 2019
The silence which would come after
the breaking of that seal
was my babe in her being;
The dreading and the awe; The christening in God’s grand ritual.
She stands at the mouth of this awful plan
My babe, handing the trumpets with solemn apathy.

   And the rivers of blood are my babe,
       And the plagues that punish are my babe

And nothing comes of begging,
Of pleading for some undeserved mercy
Because my babe is the birth,
and my babe is the end.

My babe is the wing, the fall doused in sleep
And the euphoria of sin, ephemera of earth
The dying and rising of the tides, their gentleness and their bringing.
The silence and the peace as it turns to blood;
The wave’s wine-loved singsong.

My gentle lover, who held my hand and led me into the waters.
My muddied huntress
who would **** the woodland babes
with dagger and ruthless compassion
to feed me rabbit stew
those sickly nights.

God, God, Were you not all merciful and good?
Release her from your taking,
Drop her from your unforgiving claws,
You; Beast of my life, Slithering King.
There is no end truer than that which you’ve done to me–
Your measly bringing of the end times
shines dim beside the fires of my grief.

Take me to the end of the earth,
Take me into your everlasting loving
My sun, chosen thing of God
who looks at me from a dark cloud;
My babe, In her solemn apathy,
My babe, In the quiet glistening of
her wet cheek.

O Lover, full of grace,
Death servant and God-taken;

       I’ll die. I’ll die.

    My babe, the Lion.
  My babe, the Lamb.
Sep 2019 · 88
i.e. Love
Dante Sep 2019
Divinity is not in my suffering but in the opening of my arms when it walks, all definite and sturdy, like those perfect marble statues, towards me. Yes, to me, crying is holy. When I weep, I am closer to God.
Aug 2019 · 213
Rapunzel
Dante Aug 2019
I’m sitting with my mouth a little open, my head tilted from the weight of summer. I’m sitting in the shadow of someone’s love, I’m sitting in this room, always this room, always some room. I never leave. I am never let out. I put a pillow on the chair so it’s more comfortable. I sit in the shadow of a better life, this blackness, where there is only rage and pity. A stagnancy that kills you slowly. Every good thing I could be is always walking in front of me, and I walk and walk, and I’m only ever in it’s shadow. I told someone I was going to die one of two ways: I’m going to disappear into my mind, and you’ll wave your hand in front of me, and I won’t answer. Or I’ll jump somewhere, and during the fall, I’ll love the wind and the world, until the moment it all goes black. I don’t know if she understood. So I sit. In the shadow of all good things, I sit. I put a pillow on the chair. I cry.
-

and no gender
Aug 2019 · 200
Inside The Vase
Dante Aug 2019
I’ve never failed so many times before. I’m failing, and failing, and failing. And it’s so strange, because punishment never comes. “I’ve failed” I say. “I know what they think of me now” I say. And I ready myself for the blow, and then the grief of being too much work for a person. But punishment never comes. You refuse it, and it confuses and upsets me- this natural order made obsolete, this broken vase a thing I once knew. “Here,” you tell me, and hand this precious thing to me; “There was always a flower inside it.”
Dante Aug 2019
August cools us down. It brings us back from the lazy chaos, the dreamy haze of high summer. It asks us to lay down our learned lessons. Look at them carefully and gently. What has the heat shown you? What does your softened heart now know?
From the dreams of high summer
Dante Aug 2019
I can only love you in a poem. In some fantastic little story. If I loved you with my hands, I’d press too hard, and in my inexperience I’d hurt you. In my desperate needing- like fearful animal to nurturing woman- I’d hurt you.
Have you ever seen someone so robbed of humanity?
Have you ever seen someone like me?
Aug 2019 · 346
Softly, Softly,
Dante Aug 2019
I want to ask someone,
“Will you love me, even like this?”

I want to hear them say yes. I want to then say,
“And when I finally open my heart, and all I can offer you are the broken things inside it, will you love me then?”

I want to hear them say,
“How could I refuse the love you give me?”

I want to hear them say,
“The love you give me is good. No matter the wounds your heart carries, no matter the state it’s in, the love you give me is good. All your love is good.”
Jul 2019 · 239
High Summer Loving
Dante Jul 2019
July kisses me and I kiss it back,
kiss its last days away.
Somewhere, in a room, in a bed,
your t-shirt clings to muscle,
to your skin.
And I want to be beside you,
closed inside the locket of your arms,
even now, even now,
in the heat of mid summer.
Jul 2019 · 107
The End of Cathexis
Dante Jul 2019
Love takes me, it takes me.
It washes over me and I drown in its tenderness, in this kindness you show me. Love touches me and I drown in the possibility of it, in the mere thought of it.
I thought I was done with this.

What are you made of.
What cursed god-thing courses through your veins, that it bleeds into every one of your words–
  
   hi, honey

I had convinced my heart to still itself whenever it remembered you.
How does all my heart-work (weeks of it!) go to waste
the moment you say hello,
to me.

Dear God, Angel, don’t tell me anything else,
you must know by now, if you do,
I’ll show you this mess, this weeping, this euphoria,

   this foolish hope,
and my sweet, grand fear of it.
Jul 2019 · 225
Eve, And Only Then, Adam
Dante Jul 2019
God lied. Women were born from the earth.
Crawled from the sea. Risen from your lake in the wood.
They were made from the dead fires of earth; formed from the ash,
Running, Screaming towards God their name.

It was man who came second.

It was man who was God’s afterthought,
pulled from the side of the almighty Woman.
-
If you don't know by now, all my writing on women includes trans women.
Jul 2019 · 204
Heart Eyes For My Lover
Dante Jul 2019
My eyes are painted red. Hearts over both of them, dripping into my mouth after some frantic, vicious event with you. How I long for this again, my fierce lover, how I long to **** with you again.
-


-


-
Jul 2019 · 273
Hunting A Scorpio
Dante Jul 2019
You know death when it touches you. It's a ghost that's been hunting you for years. Some months ago it finally found you and it breathed a sigh of relief. So elusive and mysterious a thing to it you were.
To it's utter dismay, upon finding you it discovered that taking you meant being faced with its first nightmare in a very, very long time.

You will not die.
Like absolute divine royalty, like hellish blood-dripping woman, you refuse Death.

I saw it happen once. You looked down your leg, an immortal Lion, long mane flowing in midnight wind, your silent rage greater than God's own.
And there it was, a ghost with its pride weakened, its body strewn hopelessly at your feet. Its hand on your thigh, pleading.
Death begs to take you now. You've crushed its dignity so.
You only stare it down, the glint of your fang scaring it into submission once more. It loosens its grasp on you, and when its hand falls, so too does its vacant eyes. Death stares at the cracks on the floor.

And you?
You are Lucifer victorious, standing with his foot on the defiled corpse of God.
Jul 2019 · 277
Secret Dreams
Dante Jul 2019
You held my hand. Touched it, caressed it.
Mindlessly, I let myself be felt by you.
Secretly, somewhere in my heart I was dancing.
I woke again, like I had before.
From closeness of you. From a dream.
From tenderness.
the second, actually.
Jul 2019 · 178
It's You, By The Way.
Dante Jul 2019
I’m keeping a secret.

The secret is what I dream. The secret is what I yearn.

The secret is in sea foam,

in its cradled growl of the thing from the depths,

and the treasure it guards.

The secret is in the feather of angels’ wing

and in every painting of them.

It’s in their golden splendor, in their vanity,

in the sins behind their teeth.

My secret, my tender little flame,

the thing I can’t yet let loose

lest it run to you.
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