Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
360 · Jun 2014
Heed my calling, boy!
Dante Jun 2014
I have the force of -possibly- an entire universe
waving it’s hands from a distance
calling out my name
throwing hints and signs
telling me that
I am to think about to future now.

Someone out there wants to let me know
that I have a future, and nothing to be afraid of.

Someone out there
wants me to push on.

Someone out there is sending amazing people
to tell me how they have a passion for everything I am interested in.
Someone out there is making me see that there will be a future me;
an older version of me

who could very well be
everything I strive to be.

Someone out there believes in me.

I don’t know who you are, but I don’t want to let you down.
I promise to not ignore your signs.
I promise to try.
You hear me?

I promise I will try!!
356 · Dec 2015
Tayanira
Dante Dec 2015
Mountains grow on my spine.

Palms kiss the earth, legs follow.
Palms kiss the earth, legs follow.

I cried at nights, popsicle in mouth.
Third grade grabbed my face and threw me across the room.

Boys and girls chant;
boys and girls chant,
but I'm not a boy
and I am not a girl.

Mountains grow on my spine.

Palms kiss the earth, legs follow.
Mother, stop feeding me, I don't want to
swallow.

I've so much to tell you.

But where were you
when men grabbed my horns
and tore them out?
Cracking, breaking child soul.

Mother said you would dance with me.
My hands small, you held me.

Spinning to Elvis songs.

My eyes don't see the ghosts yours did.
No voices dance behind my ears.

Was death sweet?
Was the crash loud?
Father, I've grown.

I am an animal.
Mountains grow on my spine.
My palms kiss the earth
and my legs
follow.

You thought of me before you left.

Where are you now?
Do your wings carry you far?

Can you see me?


Do you remember me?





Do you still love me?
Tayanira.
356 · Oct 2015
The Boys of Paradise
Dante Oct 2015
Shaped by the sounds of cracked bells
and choirs of nervous children,
our jaws hold demons
that dance behind grinding teeth.

We etch guilt into lovers' hearts,
we pour desire into strangers' drinks.
We spew words like poison,
we scar through our touch.

Our mothers love us dearly
and we are still children
they cannot control;
we throw fits
when our toys break.
Our voices are too loud.
We can't sit straight.
Our hands touch everything they can
because we're scared we won't live much longer.

We caress the cheek of death
and swallow the drugs we're given.

We hoard fears like dragons.

Our scales fall off.

We sit in Paradise
and are fed the type of love
that will never feel like enough.

We drip in the need to exist
yet we are quiet,
so very quiet
in a world where you don't see us.

Shaped by the sounds of cracked bells
and choirs of nervous children,
our jaws hold demons
that dance behind grinding teeth.

We etch guilt into lovers' hearts,
pour desire into strangers' drinks.

We spew words like poison,
and love like savages.

We love
'till our hands tremble.
'Till the universe beats us into *****, sobbing newborn animals.

Fear cradles us
and we love.

We love like infants need milk,
like stars too curious to die in an ocean of soundless black,
like caged lions who break their prison
and spare their abusers.
We love like couples dying of old age,
like young country boys
who step into a labyrinth of skyscrapers for the first time,
like mermaids who drown men with lust-filled eyes,
like snarling mother bears,
like animals,
like monsters,
like children.

We love...

we love

like children.

Our lungs held together
with glue.
Our hearts cut up
with scissors
our first grade teacher handed us
saying
"Please be careful."

"You could hurt yourself."

"Don't cry, it's just a scratch."

"I will always love you."

"Do your home work."

"I made you your favorite treat."

"Have a good day!"

"I hate you, I hate you so much."

"Never give up. Never."

"Goodnight."

"God, you're so beautiful."

"THEN **** YOURSELF ALREADY."


...


We are broken,

but we love

we love

like children.
-
I met somebody.
We are both
mentally ill.
Dante Oct 2014
The world kisses me
and begs me to be a man,
but I'm not gonna grow up
because I'm a work of art, Ma.

I'm a work of art.

I like hurting bad people
and I like hurting you.
I like hurting you,
but only because you ask me to.

No, Ma.
I don't wanna grow up
because I'm a poet,
a scary lover,
a miserable romantic.
I'm not gonna grow up, Ma.
Because I'm a work of art.

I'm a work of art.

The world kisses me
and begs me to stop.
The world kisses me,
but begs me to stop.

You can't blame me
for the death of your children
because I'm a child too,
because I was shot, too.

I'm a little boy.
I'm not gonna grow up.
I'm a work of art, Ma.

I'm a work of art!

Little girls
and scary worlds
make me a poet.
Little girls
and scary worlds
make me a monster.
Little girls
and scary worlds
make me a boy.

I'm not growing up
because I'm a work of art.
I'm not growing up
because I want to fall in love
with everything that breaks my heart.

The world kisses me
and begs me to be a man,
but I'm not gonna grow up
because Im a work of art, Ma.

I'm a work of art.

Little girls
and scary worlds
make me
a poet.

Little girls
and scary worlds
make me

a boy.
I'm not sure if I'm in love with a love story,
a man's poetry,
or the poet himself.
-
This is about a boy I will never see.
347 · Jun 2017
And If We Meet
Dante Jun 2017
When I finally meet you,
I don’t want to take
a single thing from you.
I will give you the child in me,
the fearful, the dark, the dulled fang–
I will give you the thing
deep in the darkest trench of me,
but only if you allow me to.

Only if you say ‘yes’–
‘yes, you may kiss my cheek’,
and only if you say so
with my smile in your mouth.

I only hope
I won’t be too nervous
once I look you
in
  your golden,
            child
                eye.


And If We Meet from *Ways To Love A Stranger (2017), L
-
-
-
I have a blog where I post excerpts from books.
These books do not exist.
The titles, content and year the books were published are part of the piece itself.

The link to the blog is in my description.
344 · Dec 2017
(Kintsugi)
Dante Dec 2017
I cannot escape you, mother. You’ve left me with your sister who regards me with the same cowardice and lack of warmth you nearly killed me with. Her mind closes shut so easily, my words confuse her. I tried to establish boundaries. She had never heard of the term before. You hadn’t either. She drifted towards reading over documents and cleaning while I spoke, avoiding eye contact, as if ignoring me would make me disappear. You did the very same.
I am blessed and cursed with a broken mind, but her- she is a broken vase no gold can repair, for your sister, mother, rejects it. It’s a subject of great terror- that of change- to her. To repair oneself is impossible, a horror so terrible she never speaks of it. You too feared gold, mother, but your cracks glisten with it now, and I know it’s only because of me.
I’m afraid of her. She reminds me of who you were before the gold. She will never know the joys of understanding fear, of repairing oneself with the glistening stuff that is empathy, bravery and passion.

You are sick. Please get well.
I worry about you, but most of all, I am selfish with the desire to run away from your sister. Your sister, who is only the you I could not escape.

I am tired of you. Come back.


—L, *Letters I know you can’t hold
Kintsugi:
The Japanese art of by filling the cracks of broken pottery with a special gold liquid that acts like glue, joining the pieces together. The philosophy of the art is that when something has suffered damage and has a history, it becomes more beautiful.

An open letter to my mother.
---
Experimental writing blog: lamuertedelperro.tumblr.com
344 · May 2014
Penthos
Dante May 2014
In blood and in rain,
in fragments of victims’ souls,
bathed He.

His body stood
engulfed in darkness.

In their decent,
tears formed in clouds
crashed into his cheeks,
and caressed the groove of his
jaw and
neck.

Deafening,
the lovely song
of a human dripping in sorrow
grew quiet
before fading
into nothing
but a thin mist.

Swallowing the bitter truth
of a new life,
His steps led Him away
from bodies growing
cold
and lovers being

torn.
341 · Dec 2014
Angel of Dirt
Dante Dec 2014
Of dirt and earthly things
I was born.
The soil is in my blood,
the evil of man is in my heart.
I am of flesh,
of dirt and earth,
of lust and emotion.
My power is sin.
I smell of blood and victory.

Behold,
I am the Angel of Man.

I carry your sin
and commit my own.
Succumb to your nature
and I will drink the image of a God
from your mouth.
Adore your own image
or adore a God
who will not adore you.

God has abandoned man.
God has abandoned you.

Worship my image
as you would your own
for I am the Angel of Man,
the Fallen Seraph,

I am
the new

Son of Man.
Dante May 2016
-


It's always raining.

The cafes are home to neon lights that reflect on the wet concrete.
Brick roads, painted with the tears of God.

I don't cry anymore.

I walk the streets, the night breeze whispering memories of you into my hair.
I don't want to remember. Not like that.
It's like your breath turned as cold as your hands,
you used to breathe into me the same way.
Maybe it's you.
Maybe you turned into the night.

When I wash my hands, the memories pile up in my throat and it hurts me.
You loved holding hands.
I would sneak into your room
through the window.
The air was cold and the night was not you, not yet.
No, the night was me,
bringing with me the breeze and the moon and only the brightest stars all wrapped in my love for you.
Your bed was a nest where angels survived 'till their wings grew big enough to fly.
Your room was God's paradise and you were Lucifer,
hiding from your creators in a corner of a place we made heaven.
The sheets- embedded in your scent- were sacred;

if there are gardens in heaven, the flowers smell of you.

I still worship you.
I do so quietly, praying into the city with my heavy steps.
I sigh and hear your voice tangled in my breath.
Long aimless trips that always take me to your favorite cafe.
The madeleines I taught you to have with coffee.
And there I sit, the cat meows and paws at my lap.
I can't pet the thing, for she too is a memory of you.
The same river of fur that came to greet us that night.
She nuzzles my shoe
and I drink whatever I bought.

It rains often these days.
The cafe home to neon lights that reflect on the wet concrete.
Brick roads, painted with the tears of God.
I don't cry anymore.
I stopped crying when I realized our love was not going to bring you back.

The taste of my whatever-it-is-tonight drink is my only reminder that yes,
this is a different night than the last.
It's all the same. The cat. The scent of god's blood, trapped in rainfall decorating the surface.
The other night, I bought that-other-drink, two nights before it was the sweet-albeit-with-a-bitter-aftertaste one.
These are my days.  I'll begin properly naming them soon;
Perhaps friday will become too-sweet-coffee or late-nite-kir.
Vanilla-wood-whiskey.
Carmel-scented-lies (this too would be whiskey).
Citrus-******-*****-of-a-cake.

I'm sorry. I always hated that cake.
You'd feed me a morsel of the thing every time you ordered it. You found my reaction amusing-- "How could you not like it?" you'd say, laughing. You never expected an answer.
You were so beautiful.

How could you leave me?

You left me with the cat and the citrus-y hell bouncing on my tongue,
bouncing like the I-love-yous I still have to shower you with,
bouncing like the leg that won't stop, its barely-contained urge to kick the animal and the coffee and the chair and the-

I don't cry anymore.

I'm done with the drink. I don't remember the taste.
There is some left, sitting at the bottom, almost whining at me. I leave it.
You are all there is, Guillaume.
You are in the cat's fur,  in not-quite-finished drinks, in the breaths I take to fill my lungs in some act of determination to stay alive despite there not being any reason to anymore.

Goodbye, Miss Cat. I'm heading to the bridge.
Why? No reason. The breeze is always stronger there (though this is merely an observation.).
My sighs and your voice, the night that is your soul breathing into my hair, caressing my neck and curling it's fingers around it, like you did those nights in your room. You really loved playing with my hair.

"I love you more though."

'I love you more.'
You loved me more than anything we knew existed.
And that's the thing, my darling angel, ******* star of my entire universe,

(The night, it pushes me back as I step outside of the railings, frantic attempts to keep me alive. You’ve begun to panic)

You loved me, but I still feel that wretched monster,
that thing that just won't let go of what remains of our heart, the hands of grief that anchor me to the wet concrete, the chains that don't let me go anywhere too far from the cafe and my room.
The chains that fall short of giving me the freedom to explore your room, our heaven.

The breeze has never been this strong.
Are you crying? Are you pounding your fists on an invisible surface, screaming at me from behind some divine glass wall that divides us?

"I know you're there." I say.
You're so close, yet so very far.
What a terrible cliche to die to.

My arms hook on the railings behind me, your whispers turning into a loud, cold wind no longer caressing my skin but cutting it-- this is how you scream now.
This is how you speak to me.
This is how you tell me to stay.

"No." I respond.
I'm not going to stay, Guillaume. I am not going to stay here any longer.
Nothing is going to bring you back.

I don't cry anymore.

I can't... continue this way.

I don't cry anymore.

I am young and I am in pain.
I'm bitter and angry at the universe for taking you. I hate Paris. I hate God. I hate the cat. I hate myself for feeling anger.
I hate that I cannot grieve properly. I hate that what we had was so great, it did not fit in this universe.
Maybe that's why you were taken from me, all in the name of order, balance.
But it's still too much. I don't fit in the world anymore. I don't want to fit.

Stop screaming, Guillaume. Stop begging. I won't listen. You know how stubborn I can be.

"Just try it! God, you're so stubborn."

You know I'll try anything for you, no matter how bitter the aftertaste.


I tried, I really did.


My fingers become weak as I begin to let go.
You hold your breath and it all goes so quiet.
The sound of fingers slipping off of the metal is all I hear,
death is so quiet, I think to myself
and fall.

I feel you cradle me, the air strangely warm now.
How warm must your breath be, how great your love, to alter the order of the universe so.

How slow the fall. How warm your embrace.

I'm not sorry. I love you and this is how I will show it to you.
If I cannot be with you, then I simply cannot be.

You know how stubborn I am.



I love you, Guillaume.










I love y-














. . .













*Float away, dear Thomas. Float ‘till you reach me.
-



notes:


-Hello this is daft punk fanfiction.

-The description from my original post on tumblr:
"Rainy, dimly neon-lit night strolls through a secluded part of Paris, bittersweet memories in favorite cafes, rooms-turned-heaven, friendly cats and a very, very stubborn boy who does not allow himself to properly deal with grief. Also, a “citrus-******-*****-of-a-cake”. "

-'Le Sang' is a companion piece to my 'Teenage Hearts' fic (it's also posted here).
It was written with the intention of mirroring it's brother-
Le Sang  de La Ville /is/ Teenage Hearts... set in a parallel universe.
They are the same story in different worlds.

-Re: The Title
The scent of rain on concrete (as opposed to the scent of rain on soil) is like a hidden character that's always present here, I consider it important to the story.

pet·ri·chor:
a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.
petro- relating to rocks
ichor- the fluid that flows like blood in the veins of the gods.

"It's all the same. The cat. The scent of god's blood, trapped in rainfall decorating the surface."

Le Sang de La Ville; Le Sang de Dieu
                            =
The Blood of The City, The Blood of God


-I know it's fairly short, but I'm proud of it.
I hope you enjoyed it.
339 · Dec 2014
God
Dante Dec 2014
God
The soul is rich in texture
but you're never gonna feel a thing.
They slide down my tongue;
you're never gonna taste a thing.

What cowards you all are.
Run.

I can feel your life in my hands;
coiling around my fingers.
I can lick your pleasures
and drill through your
sorrows.
I can stroke the backs of your
demons
and nibble at your
nightmares,

but I'll never
give you
the pleasure.
This is not a poem about God.
338 · Jan 2014
Human Beast
Dante Jan 2014
She asked me to eat her
              so I licked her neck  
            
                         and bit her heart.
337 · Dec 2014
Sinners and Angels
Dante Dec 2014
I'm sorry,
I'm so sorry,
but I'm going to ****
an angel.
I'm going to hurt him.
I'm going to bruise his arms
and drink his tears.
I'm going to keep his blood
in my pockets.
I'm going to taste his
skin
and I'm going to regret it.

I'm going to love him
the way you taught me to love.

I'm going to tie him up.
I'm going to bathe him in gold and
bitter liquids.
I'm going to carve messages on his
tongue
and I'm going to leave bite marks on his
innocence.

I'm a sinner at heart
and God knows it.

I'm going to hurt him
the way you hurt me.

I'm going to spit on his back
when his wings quiver
against my chest.
I'm going to
kiss his elbows
and bend his knees.
I'm going to grab his jaw
when his bones break.
I going to love him
and I'm going to regret it.

I'm a sinner at heart
and God knows it.

I'm a sinner at heart
because the Doctor made me that
way.
An angry
and vindictive boy
hurts an angel
to get back at God for making him a
monster.

But angels are just so pretty.
335 · Jan 2017
On Being Covered In Thorns
Dante Jan 2017
Some people will approach you. You will let them, and they will hurt you.
But here’s the twist: they won’t want to.
Their intentions are sweet and pure, like petals that drip in honey.
Flowers; but the kind that are covered in thorns.
But here’s the twist: they do not know they have thorns.

“Where are you!” they will cry, standing in the quiet café you would meet.
But they will not find you.

You hide, hearing their soft whimpers, and you think, “Oh, what should I do?”
But you see, you cannot tell them about their thorns.
You cannot say ‘you are unsafe for me’ without breaking their heart and yours with the truth, the crushing truth. For thorns only fall when a soul has grown enough, and theirs has not grown where yours has;

“Please speak to me! I don’t understand!”

and this is why they do not yet have the capacity to understand your silence.

You hide still, and you cover your ears, but oh, how painful it can be, when flowers are so stubborn!
“Shush”! you want to tell them, “Shush! You cannot yet hear the truth! Stop calling my name, I’ve little patience left! Do not hurt yourself, do not hurt me!”

The thorns that *****, the honey-kissed petals that fall.
Oh, how frustrating! -to hide from flowers who only wish to love, but have not yet learned how.
Oh, how sorrowful! -to see a hand bleed when you caress it, to be covered in thorns, and to not even know it!
Yes, how awful it is, to hurt another.

I will tell you something.
I have pricked the ones I love, when I only wanted to give,
and I have hurt flowers who all but withered away at my silence- whose souls had not grown where mine had.
So you see, I am both the flower and the Other, so I understand.

And so here it is, here is what I want to say:
Shush, flower. Stop calling their name. You cannot yet hear the truth. Do not look for it; for it will crush you. Do not hurt yourself, do not hurt them. Shush; the pain you seek to **** will not wane with force. Shush, flower, quiet your wants. Listen instead; listen to the lessons of the universe, grow. For only when you have grown will you be able to understand.
Shush, flower, and know, that one day you will sigh at the memory of your pain, and the thorns will have fallen from your body; and flower, oh flower,

you will be able to hold their hand.

330 · Dec 2014
Manic
Dante Dec 2014
I hate you
the way God loves
his fallen angels,

but want you
like wolves crave

hunting.
329 · Sep 2019
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.
325 · Oct 2014
Boo
Dante Oct 2014
Boo
I’m not gonna hide my horns because you find them offensive.
I’m not gonna hide my horns because you find them spooky.
Are you scared?
Are you scared?
Do I scare you?



Boo.
323 · Dec 2014
D-D-Dani
Dante Dec 2014
" I will drink all your secrets
  and you will be
    a part of me. "
321 · Dec 2014
Angel Wings
Dante Dec 2014
Rip me.
Tear me apart.
Spit your name into my mouth.
Breathe your initials onto my neck.
Claw your way into me.
Bite my shoulders.
Cut into me.
Bruise my ability to resist.

Break it.

Glide your fingers over my fear.
Hide your words in the inside of my thighs.
Dig into my ribcage.
Slide your tongue into my definition of need.
Invade my understanding of love.
Steal my breath.
Keep it.
Keep it and **** me.
**** me and don't stop.
Make me speak blood.
Leave me tearing at the seams.
Crying for your touch.
Begging for you to stop.
Begging for more.
Disoriented.
Scared.
Sore.
Slash at my words 'till all I am able to speak is your name.

Tear at my wings.

Crush my halo.

Break me.


Break me.
I don't think this is done.
I'll finish it later.
edit: I think I give up. Yeah.
edit: no wait
edit: This is the most frustrating thing in the world I never change anything i write. It's supposed to create itself, not be a frankenstein of different ideas that come to me at different times, not an experiment I'm desperate to make perfect.
320 · Mar 2015
Prismatic Understanding
Dante Mar 2015
Prismatic Understanding:

The discovery of information the object being observed does not directly provide.
319 · Dec 2014
Salivating Blood
Dante Dec 2014
My mouth floods,
it bleeds through my
fingertips.

It's a liquid
black and thick;
the drops form
in the palm of my hand.

There is no escape.
It's there for all to see now.

I don't want you to see me like this.
I don't want you to taste madness when you
lick my
neck.
I don't want you to
grab my hips
and find that your hands slip
because you can't grasp what is happening to me.

It climbs up my throat, clawing it's way out,
it trickles down my chin,
it pools in my hands,
it hurts you.

What is happening to me?

It shakes me
and bruising it through me
calms it.
Bruising me calms it.

It's tongue
slithers in me and
takes everything with it.
It's seducing me.

I can't stop laughing.
I can't stop moving.
I need to dance. I need to run.
I need to feel.
I need everything.

It spills out of my nose,
tumbles down my
tongue
it sticks to the roof of my mouth
it rips at my understanding of
time.

Help me.

I can't control it anymore.
It's so good.
I can't contain it anymore.
Help me.

It's so good.
Make it stop.
Help me.
I'm not taking that pill.
Dante May 2019
I am no one when I speak. I am only me when I am silent. I am only me when I cry my words into paper. Let me speak to you in this way, so that you know me, so that you see me! Why is it so ludicrous a thing, to sing my thoughts to the world, to speak in poetry to you? Would you let me? Would you let me? Oh, Would you prefer it?



.
309 · Nov 2014
Play Nurse
Dante Nov 2014
I want to hurt you and

nurse you back

to me.
308 · Dec 2015
Dog tooth, Demon horns
Dante Dec 2015
You ran like wolves.
You were not born a human.
You hid under tables 'till you
grew too big
to play pretend.

"You don't fit there anymore!"
your aunt smiled.

The games you played
made them uncomfortable.
Nobody understood.
Nobody played with you.

You are
not a child anymore
and sometimes

the boy
plays with you.

You can feel your claws.
You can feel your snout.
You bark.
You howl.
You smile.

It's too real now
to be
just
"pretend".

You hide under the table
and you still fit.
307 · Apr 2017
S U N S E T 2
Dante Apr 2017
A sharp pain shoots through your wrists.
Your heart beats, it beats you into the ground.

A sunset bleeds through your eyes.

Fluorescent.

The hand closes around your mouth.
Singing, but muffled.
Roses without scent.
Your favorite color, but only half of it.
Living. Half dead.

You met a predator today.
His questions like mud.
'What month were you born in'.
'What happened to your wrists'.
'What a good haircut, you shouldn't hide it'.
'How old are you'.
Hypnotist, musician, cures it all in one session.
"Take my card' he says.
You hate the way he holds it
when he offers it to you.

Terror, but muffled.
Dead bodies without scent.
Something pulls you underwater.
You're unsure of it's intent.

A sharp pain shoots through your wrists.
Your heart beats, it beats you into the ground.
A shade of gold glistens in your eye;
and are you still young, are you still young.
Drunk with fear.

The sun kisses you as you try not to cry.

The horizon floods into view.
An ocean, downtown, the neon lights a sign of life.

A sunset bleeds through your eyes,
and a voice in your ear:
"fluorescent".
His words caress you. The tale of an unfortunate young man.
She cries at his funeral.
You're not afraid of death.

His green leather jacket.
Fluorescent.

Your wrists sting you in weakness.
And are you still young, are you still young.

Like singing, but no voice.
Roses without scent.


A sunset bleeds from your eyes.


Fluorescent.
Dante Jul 2017
You're behind me, aren't you?
Behind my weak form, behind this place, behind the years.

Yet you strangle me!

...

How do you do that?

How can all of you...

...

There's so many of you, is the thing.
There's you, and you, and you; amongst so many others.
It's... haha, it's really something.

You know,
whenever my friend's arm brushes against mine, I pull back in disgust.  An internal "Christ don't touch me" screeches and stops as suddenly as it forms.

I bear my fangs and my wrists tense, ready to claw at eyes who have no business watching me, before I catch myself
and step away.

And when said friend's tactlessness pulls them away from their intuition and keeps them preoccupied with their own feelings, I hear all of your voices at once.
"My needs first. My needs first."

And I wonder-
would the fangs have grown anyways
would the claws have grown anyways
would I had been this anyways
if none of you would have given me a reason to.

...

No, no.
Surely not.

...

Of course not.









*Of course not.
303 · Aug 2019
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.”
302 · Aug 2015
Adventures in Space
Dante Aug 2015
One day
I mounted a ship.

Days would caress the outside of the vessel,
but never my body.
I could not feel
the passing of time.

It was quiet.
There was a small window.
Blackness,
a void decorated by stars.

...

Months tore away at me.

The ship doesn't land.

I still don't know
where I am going.

The silence crushes me.
I don't know if I have
a soul anymore.
I am unsure of certainty.
I doubt the existence of my body.

My hands are not mine.
The walls are not real.

Loneliness is deafening,
the muffled sound of my sobbing
in the
distance.
I am not here.
There is no "here".
My heart quivers under the pressure
of my empty thoughts.
I am
overwhelmed
and feel nothing.

I am alone.
Nowhere to land.
The ship keeps flying.

I don't know where I am going,

but maybe

maybe
I am


getting there.
dissociation
302 · Apr 2019
Women
Dante Apr 2019
I tremble before their form.
They are the terror of all who’ve witnessed them. Women are an event. Women crack the earth and grow the sunflower, they storm the land and rip me with their breath. And I fall to my knees in prayer. For I, woman that I am not, have killed women by my mere existence. And if I look her in the eye, will she turn me to stone. If I dare to speak, will she take my voice away.

I fear the women I’ve seen; will a woman ever forgive me?
Well, does a god forgive after you’ve slaughtered its kind?
If you are like me, if you are not a woman, you should know— do not be kind. She will **** you if kindness be your only offer.
Devotion is the only answer.
Worship is the only salvation.
And the life you are allowed to live after that,
the only forgiveness.
300 · Jun 2015
Galaxy Tragedy
Dante Jun 2015
In some universe
-probably one with living organisms and planets inside a creative mind-
I am an attractive tragedy.
I'll show them.

The planets in my head may be full of deserts,
and maybe no living being's skin knows eternal life,
and that may be beautiful to you.

My galaxies might be scarred and my stars cracked.
The gravitational pull of every existing mass weak,
and that may be beautiful to you.

I'm thankful my turmoil is beauty,
but I am not a tragedy.
I was created in the image of angels,
my skin built of stardust.
I am powerful.

I am not a tragedy.
295 · Aug 2016
Azul Dorée
Dante Aug 2016
The room is dimly lit, shades of blue caress the sheets. It's a late summer night, the full moon blows kisses into your room through the glass window.
The AC hums quietly- white noise swimming into you. The perfect lullaby.
You groan from under the bed sheets, annoyed. 

You can't sleep.

Rising like a groaning zombie would from his grave, sitting upright, you stare ahead, not really seeing. Staying up so late the night before might not have been a very good idea after all. Not only did the movie you and your friend decided to watch end up being unbearably boring, the conversation responsible for keeping you both up 'till four doesn't seem to exist in your memories. Ugh, what a waste.

You blink a few times; a quick glance at the digital clock next to your bed indicates it's... late. No surprise there. The numbers glow electric blue.

4:08

You don't remember the last time you were awake in your bed like this, at such an unholy hour; you have a vague memory of feeling particularly restless one night and considering getting a midnight snack. God knows what you decided to eat, whatever it was is too far back in your memories now, even if you remember clearly what happened moments before.
Such is life- the little things often forgotten, even if they are the key to happiness.
Now's not the time to begin pondering such things, though.
It's admittedly hard to anyways, you're quite distracted.

You didn't notice it then- that sleepless night- but the moonlight slipping in from outside your window is illuminating the room- just enough- to see the bed clearly, and what's happening on it.
The numbers' blue light is painting waves into the creases of the sheets.
Empty, white ocean in the night, velvety smooth stroking your legs through the cloth.
You move your them for a moment, slowly, finding yourself amused by the effects of the lighting. A lazy, sleepy smile decorates your face
along with the faintest chuckle.

"Thomas..."

You don't know it, but you're nearly half asleep.
The thoughts cup your cheek, turning into dreams the more they whisper. You lean into their touch, laying back down, your hair decorating the pillow.
Brush strokes on a white canvas.

To your right, six feet away from the bed, there is a window. You like using a thin bed sheet as a curtain sometimes- it's thin enough to let the perfect amount of sunlight through in the mornings. Ever since the day you discovered waking up to the warmth of the sun was a lot like waking next to a lover, you can't help but find it romantic. Even if it is cheesy; it's become a habit now, and you're only a little embarrassed about your fiery crush.
But really, who could blame you? It's nothing short of amazing-
sun ray kisses warming your back, distilled light breathing up your arms, sun-lit lips just barely grazing your skin... audible sighs tickling your neck, warm hands caressing your shoulders in silent pleas for attention. Mm, that's a different lover now, isn't it?

"Wake up, Guillaume. I miss you, please kiss me..."

Ah, you remember now.
Milk and honey. That's what you had that night. It was hot, liquid-thin on your tongue but thick in it's taste.
(It's odd, now that you think about it- if there's anything you'll drink before going to sleep, it's wine. What happened? What made you crave warmth and sugar- like a child- of all things? You can't remember.)
You started taking small sips of it, eventually becoming impatient, feeling that if you took too long, you would become restless again.
You downed the last of it- an even, smooth flow burning your throat (you sigh at the memory of the feeling, it was very satisfying at the time), the milk becoming sweeter and sweeter as your nose peeked further into the mug.

Sleepy dragon's breath, hot and sweet on your nose.

You added too much honey, you recall. It piled at the bottom and you sipped the last of it, feeling- just barely- its weight on your upper lip.
Rose kiss on cupid's bow.
"Please, open..." it would beg, if it could.
You did, but only a little of it was allowed to reach your tongue.
Too sweet.

"Nnh.."

How silly you would look to him now; whining like a petulant child at the thought of your warm milk having too much honey. "Relax, it's only a memory." he would say, petting your hair and smiling down at half-dreaming you, your head on his lap.

Your eyes are closed now.
You think about the too-sweet honey, the sunlight and the ocean all at once. You feel them; a flurry of taste, touch, of memories. Silver smile.

Drifting, ocean-blue eyes disappearing behind curtains that fall
like pebbles underwater, falling slowly on beds of sand. Landing without a sound.
You're seconds away from sleep, the image of waking next to your bright, fiery lover making you speak.


"Good morning... Thomas..."


Goodnight, Guillaume.
-





-This is a daftpunk fic. I am as embarrassed as you are.
294 · Dec 2014
Play Nurse (pt 2)
Dante Dec 2014
The pain
in my neck is
unbearable.

You hid my medicine,
my comfort.
I can't
find anything.

All so you could
play-bite my skin
and hear me yelp

each time you
pushed your tongue
on my
bruises.
292 · Jan 2016
Water Die
Dante Jan 2016
1 to 20.

Roll twice.

10.
6.

6..
7 8 9 10.
4.

4 actions that promote self-improvement.

Roll twice.
Repeat.
A game.
290 · Nov 2014
Spoke the Seraph
Dante Nov 2014
CELEBRATE YOUR SINS
FOR EACH OF THEM
IS AN INSTANCE
OF FREEDOM
-
Dante Feb 2015
There are
mouths that
drink
me

and I
dissolve;
sleep on their
tongue.

I'm like
a pain killer
that would ****
to feel your pain.

Drink me
so I can taste you
from the
inside.

The mouths of
virgins and
children
do not salivate
enough;

I want to be consumed
by insatiable boys,
ambitious writers,
I want to be eaten by someone
bursting with pride
and greed.
Someone suffering
through laughter.

I want to sleep
in pools of another's
desire--

rest on the tongues
of mad men.

I want no purity,
no lips
spouting truth and sanity
will touch me.

I want the schizophrenic,
the sweating mother at the clinic,
I want the screaming child in the corner,
the man who never grew up,
I want the woman
who speaks to the cats.
I want the boy
who turned out to be a monster.
I want
the murderer
who ate his family
and became a god





to drink me.
287 · Apr 2019
Honey, babe!
Dante Apr 2019
Honey's what you are! Golden eyed creature, sweet speaking babe-- honey, and honey, lightning strikes in your veins.
But you're nature, baby!-- a sweet dollop of pain and love!
So bless me with all you are, and I'll be holy for it, for havin' a taste of that acid n' sweet.

Divine thing that never spoils, sweet babe.
Honey's what you are.


-For a stranger, for a woman.
-

-

For a woman who has severe RSD and seemed to have been familiar with other kinds of pain, I wrote this lil' thing.
Everyone deserves a love letter.
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
285 · Oct 2014
Quiver Breath
Dante Oct 2014
I'm so sorry,
but my self control
is breaking
under the weight of your body.

Strands of black brush my neck
and I hear my pulse threatening to **** me.

My hands travel your waist,
your lower back,
you're killing me.

The light grows dim
and my surroundings dark.
Your scent is intoxicating.

My breath
coils
around my voice
and my lips part,
my tongue slithers,
I taste your neck.

I'm drowning in ecstasy now,
digging deep,

I don't trust my hands anymore.
I don't trust my thoughts anymore.
I can't trust myself anymore.

I'm crawling inside of you.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
I can't stop.
My hands grip your throat.
My breath cuts the space between us.
My pulse quickens.
I want to hurt you.
Baby, I'm throbbing.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
I can't stop.
I can't stop.

You are
poison

and I'm swallowing you.
282 · Jan 2015
2015
Dante Jan 2015
I didn't wish for anything this year
or throw away any of the bad;
I want life to throw itself at me
with all it's got
and I'll pray
it doesn't hit me in the face.

And if it does,
I hope it leaves

a gnarly scar.
278 · Dec 2016
Vanishing Act I
Dante Dec 2016
My eyes are closed. Time creases between my fingertips.
Do not come looking for me.

I don't want to be found.
I don't want to exist,
not now.

When I am finished,
when the stars return to my eyes,
when I call your name, breathless with the effort of disappearing,
then you may come.

You may hold me.
Dante Aug 2017
I’ve written nothing.
I’ve stood at the mouth of me
and listened and listened;

when I look,
I find
the sharpest truths are still
   in my mouth
nestled under my tongue
and I am restless
and I am numb
and don’t ever let them tell you
that emotions can be contained.
   They are like water
that eats through cave walls,
that drowns the richest of kings,
the palest of boys,
the most fearsome of beasts

   and little girls
with Pocahontas hair
          and don’t-hurt-me eyes.

I stand at the mouth of me
and listen
and listen.
I hear my own language- the consonants blurred,
the “I” so holy, holy, holy
yet small, caged, shivering,
  a bull in a cereal box.
Only the vowels have survived.

I hear me, the writhing language of pain,
and I scream
and plead
and beg to be.

I stand at the mouth of me.
I'm afraid to jump.

Nothing.

I’ve written nothing.
Dante Jun 2019

"Oh Charles, Oh dear friend... what shall I do? She is somewhere far and I can't reach her hand. I can't tell her with my mouth the things I need to say. Only though letters- through ink and paper can I say anything at all. And I'm no good with words, Charles! Why, I- I'm only an animal, a dog who will lick you and look at you with those full moon eyes to tell you that it loves you, and, and I can't take it anymore, Charles. I miss her. Oh I shall go mad if this continues!"

"I thought the wait would make you king, Laurence? What's changed?"

"..."

"Why don't you tell her?"
"Tell her. Tell her what?"
"Tell her the way you feel."
"My dear Charles. It... it isn't yet time. I've barely spoken a word to her. She’d think me truly mad then!— if I were to tell her about my childish yearning.
She's been ill, you know. Away, being taken care of by those blessed enough to know her. And me, I'm nothing to her yet; I am ******, too young and dry still, without the waters of her baptism. Oh if only she were near..."

"You'd fumble about and tip the tub with all its water, you would!"
"Oh hush..! At least then she'd see me. In all my fumbling and stuttering, Charles. She would see me."

"That she would, dear friend. That she would."
273 · Mar 2016
Nightvision
Dante Mar 2016
You will be somewhere out there,
drink in hand, slightly frowning at the sound of the third string-
it's out of tune. What a terrible guitar player.
A mediocre rock band plays.
The singer isn't good.
You will sigh and wordlessly wonder if you will ever meet
a good singer,
or anyone who likes good music.
Maybe someone who enjoys the music you do.
"That's wishful thinking at best, isn't it?", you'll mutter to yourself
and take another sip
of a particularly "girly" drink. You don't care. It tastes sweet.
The lights will decorate your back; you're not facing the dance floor.
You'll glance to the side, there being nothing there to look at,
and you will decide you'll stop giving this club a chance- the music is never good enough.
It will have been the second, maybe third time you go there.

You will finish your drink
and go back home.
You will lay in bed, the sheets will be warm, the night cold.

Having gotten tired from the walk home,
you fall asleep quickly.

The universe ties us together that night
and in a club you've never been to before,
lacking mediocre rock bands,
a dj taking their place,
(a particularly good dj playing that night, he's mixing 90's french house songs)
You sit and order your sweet drink.

Ten minutes go by.


I walk in.
Dante Jun 2019
“I’ve only seen her, Charles. Like a shooting star, I’ve only seen her. But I’d be a king amongst kings to subject myself to that arduous task— of knowing her, and letting her know me. So that we could, some day, and only if she too desires me, arrive at the gates of love.”

“And what about doing that would make you a king, Laurence?”

“Oh don’t you know, Charles? The wait to reach her is as golden as any king’s riches,”

And here, he turns to look at him and smiling, baring teeth and pride, tells his dear friend,

“and would make me twice richer.”





.
271 · Dec 2015
Snow Angels
Dante Dec 2015
You're not used to the cold.
Tonight was cold.

Downstairs.
Outside.

Make a snow angel.
Caress the earth.
Fly.
Get up.

Look at the shape.


There is no shape.

There is no snow.

It never snows here.

You have no friends.

Nobody understands your brain is broken.

There is no cure.

There are no pills.

You can't be treated.

You have no halo.

You have no wings.

You are stranded on an island.

The mall's too small.

Your mother doesn't understand.

Your therapists don't understand.

You're not sick enough.

You're not well enough.

You're not sad enough.

You're not happy enough.

You don't beg enough.

You're not silent enough.

You're not bad enough.

You're too nice.

There is no cure.

There is no cure.

There is no cure.

There is no

snow.
Happy ******* holidays
271 · Jun 2015
Red Pet
Dante Jun 2015
You went all the way,
stretched me into a
willing slave.

You fit so comfortably,
you fit so
right.

My wounds are fresh,
your hands sliding up my bones.
You're filling me,
fitting into the spaces between my
veins.

Your fingers press against my heart,
mine curl under the pressure.
Your eyes whisper commands,
mine roll back in my head.

You go all the way in,
stretching me into a
hungry animal.

You fit so comfortably,
You fit so
right.

My wounds are fresh,
you bite your lip.
I'm falling slowly now,
my head heavy, my vision blurred.

You're
pounding into me
Slipping between my insides.
I'm still
warm but
I'm losing

I'm losing
myself
to you.

It's okay,
just don't stop.
Take me.

Don't stop.



Don't





stop.
270 · Jan 2015
M o n g r e l
Dante Jan 2015
I will claw my way
up your throat
slowly.
Your jaw  c r a c k i n g  open,

s p l i t    t i n g.

your tears decorating my fingers,
your screams encouraging me,
inviting me.

You touch your throat in disbelief;

I am born.

I stand before you.
Your essence dripping from your
tongue.
I hold your jaw.

Silly child.

You are not my prison.
You cannot digest me.

**You cannot contain me.
264 · Dec 2014
Son of Man
Dante Dec 2014
You shed your wings
and fell not from grace;
you ate through the womb
to be
born.
Your mother died before seeing your
little hands.
The Father shut his eyes in
disgust
when you spoke your first words.

Your eyes are blackened,
your knuckles bleed.
The wounds decorate your
skin
and you
laugh.
You walk with your
powdered nose and your
wide eyes.
You're ready to **** 'em all.

Ripped limbs and careful spelling;
meticulous and violent.

No fruit in the world
could reverse the process.
No holy liquid could
wash away your
curse,
your blessing.

You wouldn't have it any other way.
255 · Apr 2019
A Fool If You Do, Baby
Dante Apr 2019
You’d be a fool to question anything, for all is
(and there’s nothin’ more, nothing more than the sweet indifference with which nature loves us)
But you’d be a bigger fool not to,
for all is
and this is eternally significant.
250 · Dec 2014
Teenage Soldier
Dante Dec 2014
I am not ready
for death but
I am prepared
for violence.
249 · Oct 2015
Shakespeare; Reversed
Dante Oct 2015
My heart shook under the quivering words made slaves to your tongue.
You laugh and never explain why.
You laugh like you know secrets that cut the speeches of heroes short.
You sat and read Shakespeare.
You enjoy poetry the way villains enjoy music.
There is terror in the rhythm of your words,
the silent kind, the one you don't notice
until it's too late.

I stop to ask,
"You don't find it weird? I'm... doing this
while you're reading Shakespeare..."

"I find it romantic, really." you said, in a voice that begs to be silenced,
but crushes the one who
dares try.
Next page