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Dante Sep 2014
My lungs were full
of so much anger.

I have an audience waiting for me
to scream
and sing.

I entertain with the weight I carry.
I entertain with the love I've lost.

I sang a song, I sang another..
and won't you believe it,
my emotions were tearing me apart.

They tore through my ribcage,
poured out my hands,
decorating the microphone I grasped so tightly.
They burst from my back, filling the air
like crows fill skies
under sorrow filled nights.

I felt my heart drowning
In my new blood.

And the crowd goes crazy.

I feel my heart drowning
in my new blood
The stage is my home
and I am a monster
with a penchant for control.

They sang with me,
echoing the words that slid down my

I entertain them
with the weight of my past.
I entertain them
with the love I've lost.

I entertain them with the weight I carry.

I entertain them

with the weight I carry.
Dante Aug 6
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?
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
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:
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.
Dante Apr 25
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.
Dante Nov 2017
I can’t stand to write any longer! No matter how true my words, they are always slathered in decorative gold, in velvet lies!
A veil is never an evil thing so long as one knows what hides behind it, but I’ve grown tired of portraying the truth this way.
Lift the veil. Poetry is dead.

--*L, The Poet Is The Liar’s Brother
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.
Dante Dec 2018
Dare to touch the world
So that it may touch you back.
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.
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
I am not here.
There is no "here".
My heart quivers under the pressure
of my empty thoughts.
I am
and feel nothing.

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

I don't know where I am going,

but maybe

I am

getting there.
Dante Jun 25
What has happened to me?
I’ve been acted upon;
brought to my own becoming.
On my knees
before an altar that holds me
and all I have been.
And I’m praying, God, I’m praying,
agape in my own-loving, in my still-shock;
Defenseless to my god and silent.
Dante Sep 6
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.
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
  your golden,

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.
Dante May 3
Honey if God is any good,
he'll reward you for cursing him
and meaning every word.

For nothing is sweeter
than a pain fully felt.

It’s true, you know.
Dante May 5
Sorrow embraced is divine,
and purity is the marriage of joy and agony.

The heart will beat.
Do not protest when the sword goes through it.

Dante May 21
Cut my jaw with your lip, burn me with your blessed touch. Poison me with that silver tongue o’ yours, good God, preach to me your sweet loving.
Drip your name into my mouth, and I’ll swallow it all.

this is an edit/repost! I've fixed it up is all =) might keep the other one.
Dante May 15
Cut my jaw with your lip, burn me with your touch.
Poison me with that silver tongue, n’ drip your name into my mouth
and baby I’ll swallow it all.

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.

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 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.
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.
Dante May 2014
Those pearls you call eyes
are a detriment to my ability to stay calm
and the poison that drips from your
drags me into you;

I’m an addict to your venom.
I’m dissolving in your breath.
I’m falling apart on your

Your blood carries the toxin of animals I’ve never heard of
but I swear I’d shoot anything into my veins if you were next to me.

There are moments
of crashing silence;
like angry drunk drivers
quietly crawling to their demise.

In these moments,
your breathing reaches my
and your blood rushes
into my

I want
to claw my
way into you.
I want to dig into your
I want to be all you feel inside of you.
I want to breathe with your thoughts.
I want to fall down the grooves of your throat,
and dissipate into your

I want to be consumed by you.
so all inside you becomes

and I


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.


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.


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.


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.
Dante Oct 2013
I tower over forests
I sing for myself
I **** to survive
I claw at hearts, muscles, meat

There is no time to stay
there is no time
there is only time to run

I **** with throbbing hands
I eat with flat teeth
I am not human
I never will be human

I am always hungry
I starve enveloped in eternal, beastly urges

I starve
there is no time to starve
there is no time
to sit, stay, lay down

there is no time

run run
Dante May 2017
Your mother ties you up and leaves you on the train tracks. "I won't hurt you anymore after this." she says, as you hear the train approach.

"No." you say, your voice tearing a hole in time and space. You enter the hole; you are 30 minutes younger and your mother is dead. Murderer.

20 Apr 2015
Dante Apr 2014
I’d break into you;
pull your
tear away every obstructing
if it meant
I could finally steal your
Dante Oct 2014
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?

Dante Nov 2018
Bright Wanderer,

Your heart beats to the tune
of a strange, strange song.
The world thinks you a devil;
ugly child, belonging in the night.

Horned thing, who are you?

A wanderer, a hermit,
fearful and small.
A wonderful fool
who cries when they fall.

Take your stick.
Tie your shoe.
The path to the forest will never close.

The trees are alive
sticks become swords.
Grasp it firmly, dear, fool with horns.

For great evil awaits you,
terrible things lie ahead
and only you can defeat them
only you can extinguish it.

Bring company, child
and speak much
for when you are with friends,
words turn into rhymes.

Sing with them,
whoever they may be,
and when the sun falls,
may you lull the them to sleep

with your strange, strange song.
Dante Nov 2014
"See you tomorrow!"
he said.

And I never saw him again.
I did get to see him again.
(I saw him today)
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.
Dante Oct 2014
You're so terrifying and sweet.
Baby knuckles and

I wonder what I have to tear open
to get to your pearl.
You are a treasure chest
and I haven't even found the X.

I want to know what's under your dress.
I want to feel what's inside of your chest.

I would deprive you of oxygen
so you learn to breathe through my words.

You're some kind of angel.

I'm going coax you
into writhing

for me.
Dante May 2014
My blood will flow through your veins.
My whispers will eat you away,
chip at your soul,
gnaw at your vision.
My hands will shake in your presence.
My breath will spiral into your throat.

You will bathe in my image.

You will melt into my hands.
You will cry in fear.

You will gasp for air.
Drip in nervous laughter.
Lose everything
in a mind crowded by thick fog.

My instinct.
Your bleeding.

My need.
Your bruising.

My urges.

Your death.
Dante Jun 2017
Q: What is the eye to you?
L: Haven’t thought about that yet.
Q: What about the “I” then?
L: As opposed to “me”?
Q: Yes.
Q: You can’t smoke in here.
L: It’s cherry flavoured. I haven’t tried them yet.
Q: That doesn’t change anything.
L: Fair enough.
L: What was the question?
Q: Your thoughts on “I” and “me”.
L: Ah. So, “Me” is me standing before a mirror and pointing at the reflection.
Q: and “I”?
L: “I” is a prayer.
Q: Can you be more specific?
L: “I” is a prayer one utters when battle has made you weary and you’re not quite sure how it is you’re still standing. The vision in one of your eyes is blurred and red. You can’t tell if the blood on your face is yours, but it is. All of it is. You’ve just realized that. The thought hurts more than the wounds- “Have I always been the one being wounded? Has this battle been a war against me all along? I’m the victim?”
Q: What kind of war is that?
L: One against you.
Q: I see.
L: I’m not finished.
Q: Continue, then.
L: You ask yourself these questions and realize that not only are you still standing, you are, and there’s power in that. So you square your shoulders and breathe slow to look hell in the face. You’ve still got one good eye after all. The ground is suddenly stiller than you remember. The fog lifts. There are no bodies. The remnants of war and chaos surround you; you walk forward. You don’t know where you’re going but the thought isn’t a doubt. You’re full of certainty and gun smoke and nothing stains or stings your lungs as you breathe in- and then out. Then suddenly- there they stand, the match that started the fire, the one that ended in certain death and now rebirth. You stop. You breathe- in, out. You pray.
Q: “I”?
L: Aye.
Q: Who are you praying to?
L: God is present in many things.
Q: The self?
L: “I”.
Q: I see.
L: The more I value myself, the more God there is in me.
Q: Who is the enemy in this war?
L: Depends.
Q: On what?
L: How much you’ve healed.
Q: Can you elaborate?
L: The enemy could be a ghost, your uncle, your first grade math teacher, a rabid dog. People, though- they rip things from you. They cough in your direction. They tell you to prioritize their wants over your needs. The enemy could also be your reflection. It depends on how much you’ve healed.
Q: Are you at war with yourself?
L: Absolutely.
Q: Who started this war?
L: Many.
Q: Why hasn’t it stopped?
L: I was taught to continue the war, not to end it.
Q: You mean like abuse?
L: Not like abuse. Abuse.
Q: So being abused led you to be at war with yourself.
L: Correct.
Q: I’d like to go back to your first answer.
L: You want me to conclude it.
Q: Yes.
L: “Me” is an image. “I” is your essence. Your essence can be weaponized through prayer.
Q: That’s quite the statement.
L: When the enemy has you pinned by the wrists, thretening to stab your throat with your own brush, when your worth becomes tied to how many times in the day they decide to use you, when they take everything you are and tell you to **** yourself with it once they’re gone, when they have their foot on your back and a fist full of your hair, cackling like demons in a church they were never meant to enter- that is when you pray.
Q: “I”?
L: The reflection’s reflection speaks. This is what God is. This is your prayer. Everything you are packed tightly into a single vowel, in one deep breath. The reversal of a tragedy preformed perfectly, the cracking of a reality that once was, but with a single word, is no more. The vocalization of your very essence-

L: “ I “.

From: *Stories From A Sane Poet: A Look Into The Mad Minds of Troubled Youth (1986) - Chapter 7: What Is The Eye?
Interview with a troubled youth; from a book that does not exist.
The other parts are much shorter than this I promise.
Sorry for posting again. Heavily edited this and had to post.
Dante Jun 2016
The sleeves are short and tight around your thin arms.
School boy image; slim and delicate.
School is long gone, but you are still so very young;
what with that baby face of yours and all.

A ring- stainless steel, its hard edges giving it a mechanical look- loosely hugs your ring finger. Whenever you flip someone off, it glistens under the sun
and I hope that whoever you're cursing is able to appreciate it too;
the delicate frame of your wrist- small and weak. The nails that you try to keep trimmed but grow too fast and as a result are always a bit longer than you wish they'd be.
The way your fingers fall into position, effortless, never forced.  The way they never bend all the way in despite being perfectly capable of doing so (there is no need to, and this is a reflection of your confidence.). The classic Casio F-91W wristwatch decorating your wrist. Straight out of the 90's-- you are rebellion, teenage rebellion, ****** hair smooth and healthy, polo shirts with popped collars, black skinny jeans torn at the knees.
You sleep somewhere between stupid punk and silent elegance.
A bittersweet drink that burns the throat and wakes the senses.
Somewhere between a drunken, buzzing, neon-lit Miami and a lonely tragedy in the deserts of California.

You are so very you, unapologetically ignorant to the world surrounding you and so very self-aware.
You pick up on details that you say fill your soul- the way the buildings are touched by the sunset's dying light, the patch of fog that settles on a faraway mountain you've never set foot on.
You look at me with eyes that say you understand our exact coordinates in spacetime. That look that is synonymous with the moment a flying arrow begins tearing the flesh.
Your eyes, melancholy, seducing. You speak, the words just barely escaping your throat; but I don't hear them. The universe is silent. Your lips move.

"---- -- --- ----?"

I understand you are asking for some kind of information. I don't know the answer to your words, but I know the answer to your eyes. The answer to many questions you ask, maybe the answer to anything you are able to ask me:
My eyes threaten to shut, almost-closing unevenly, and I say, slowly, in an unlearned language, the sounds a string of milky saliva being pulled out by your tongue:


Your name.

because when you look at me, when I see you, there is nothing in the universe. Nothing but all you are, your beauty.
Your hands, your slightly-parted lips, your silver rings, your Casio wristwatch. Your body.
My body.

Our body.

The soft-skinned, smooth, young vessel we share.

Darling boy. You are so beautiful and the world is so *****.
You will never tell them about me, of our time spent in front of the mirror.
They wouldn't understand- it isn't about the contrast between our image and the stupidity of mankind, it's about you.
You, entire.
It's about the moment you raise your hand and the world bows before your image. It's about the distorted voice in your poetry, the voice that is yours. The face that is plastered over everything you create, the face that is yours- made for yourself but offered for all to drink- gullible soup, sugary drug,
secret poison- hidden under a screeching melody.

It's about the cheering crowds that dance as you sing:
"Destruction. War. Chaos."

It's not as shallow as a vain "I am beautiful."
It is something deeper, more translucent, more intangible than any concept that lets itself be understood.
It is a mob of unstoppable energy screaming at you in blind joy when you give out your commands. It is in the voices that cheer:


Schoolboy image, Casio wristwatch.
Your name a page in the bible, moaned in ecstasy.
How beautiful you are, how sweet in your lies, how childish

and how very aware of it all you are.
-This is a sebastiAn fic.

-Cookies to the ones who get the low-key Kavinsky and Electroma reference.
Dante May 21
When all becomes heavy, and you’ve made yourself so small that your pleas are like the voice of a mouse, remember: The sword must go through the heart, and you are to relish in this sweet ache, forever and ever, and that is a kind of survival. And when all is still heavy, and your pain is not the kind that will set you free, do not shun the hand of your loved one. For there is a kind of heart that can only be held with two hands. Both of them cannot be your own.
Dante Dec 2014
I sing you lullabies
and clean your knees.
I play with your hair
and brush it away
from your neck.

My sweetest, my child.
My little pet.

I hold your hand
and guide you to me.
I call your name
and you fall to your knees
for me.
My sweetest, my child.
My little toy.

I bruise your back
and hear your pulse.
I press my hand
on your throat
so you know you breathe
for me.

I will care for you
when you weep.
I will care for you
when you bleed.

My sweetest, my child.

My little pet.
Dante Jan 2015
Come to me,
to my image, to the thought of me.
Come to me.

Come to me.
Dante Dec 2014
" I will drink all your secrets
  and you will be
    a part of me. "
Dante Dec 2014
Pulled around,
pulled apart.

Bend your knees,
form a knot.

I'm gonna
in your wreckage

Gonna twist
your elbows
and dye your pleasures and fears
the same

I'm gonna
tie your hair
to the bed post,
gonna **** out your soul
through your mouth.

So part your lips a little more.
Part your legs a little more.

Pulled around,
pulled apart.

Bend your knees,
form a knot.

I'm gonna
rip out the pretty
and replace it with your sounds.

tear away the fabric
surrounding your heart;
make you want to stay
when I let you go.

I'm going to strip you
of your curiosity.
I'm going to
make you unlearn language.

I'm going to hurt you.
I'm going to make you want to bleed.
I'm going to spit my name into your mouth.

I'm going to love you raw.

Pulled around,
pulled apart.
Bend your knees,
form a knot.
Keep it tight,
don't let go.
I'm almost done,

10 more to go.
Dante Oct 2015
My name is Michael Ross.
There is no time.
Grab the papers.

I found the pattern.
I found the solution.

Nobody can know.
They are eyeing me with suspicion as beads of sweat decorate my skin.

Don't make eye contact.
Hide the papers.

Don't say anything, don't look, don't look.
I grab my coat too tight.
The harder I grasp, the harder it is to breathe.

The truth is strangling me.

I am leaving this building.
The solution leaves with me.
Nobody can know.
They are eyeing me with suspicion as the pen hits the

Time becomes thick
as the object yelps in pain,
the mocking sound sudden,
breaking the silence once dripping in salvation.

They know.

My heart stops and they all look at me,
eyes growing wide and hungry.

Jeremy understands the new found horror and signals me to run
as they position their bodies the way predators do
when they trigger terror in their

The door is too far.
My legs race against a mob of data hoarding mad men.

I'm almost out.

The sunlight bleeds from under the door.

The outside is cold. It might snow tonight.

My body slams against the exit.


It's locked.
He knew.

I look over my shoulder in horror;
the faces
hunger and
absolute greed;

I am about to die.

My name is Michael Ross.
The lights drilled to the ceiling
are no longer visible.
There is no time.

I found the pattern.
Nobody can know.

I found the solution.

I found the

Dante Jun 2017
Smoke the cigarette. Drink the flame. Allow the sword to enter you.
There is no ******, death cannot be an offering. You cannot be killed.
You who are mortal, whose end is nobody’s experience but your own;
Death belongs to you.
Your death is your own; nobody else's. Nobody can offer it to you. You might not be ready for it, but it is, in the end, entirely yours.

I find comfort in this.
Dante Dec 2017
December 9.
When did the month arrive, October and its leaves rushed past me just yesterday.
I’ve not seen the snow since I was barely a teen.
Powdered branches just outside my window.
My eye closes wearily. All of me is exhausted from the past days’ loving. Fall did not come in November; December fell, it fell silently into my life.

— *L, from the journal “Winter And Its Waking Breath
Experimental writing blog:
Dante Oct 2013
Eyelids are heavy.

I can feel the full moon
eating away at my former self.

I’ve never felt so sick.
I’ve never felt so alive.
My body is crushed
must’ve gotten hit by a truck.
My head is bleeding.
My fists recently crushed something.
There’s a body next to me; knocked out and bruised.
I’ve never felt so alive.

Demon drugs.

2:30 in the morning
In the middle of nowhere.
I walk, each step echoes
like drums
like drums.
My fists want to crush something.
I’m bleeding.

Give me more demon drugs.
Give me more demon drugs.
Like drums, like drums;
give me more demon drugs.

I’m running now,
I can’t see anything.
My legs lead me into the void.
I’ll get shot, I’ll get killed, *****, eaten, loved.
I’ll **** whatever I find, I’ll **** anything that moves.

It’s cold. My blood is boiling. I’m sick.
I’ve never felt so alive.
I’ve never felt so sick.
My body is crushed.
I’m running, like drums, like drums.
I’m so hungry.

Give me more demon drugs.
Give me more demon drugs.
Like drums, like drums;
give me more demon drugs.

I’m so hungry.
I’m so hungry.
**** me. Hit me.
I’ll **** you.
I’m so hungry.

Give me your love.
Give me your drugs.
Demon drugs.

Give me more demon drugs.
Dante Mar 2015
Dress in colors that do not exist;
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Terror by confidence. Confidence by image. Image by terror.
Dante Apr 2014
Your name crashes into me sometimes
like falling planes driven by dead pilots.

It’s then that I remember I’ve dreamt of you.

Your voice is faint
in dreams where I’ve known you for years.
And your skin is
and scarred.
But I dare not lay a finger on you
even in dreams.

I don’t know the sounds you make
when scared
or loved.
I don’t know the rhythm of your voice,
the pattern in your words.

But I know
I’ve an empty heart
that I’d love to fill
with you.
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

You hide under the table
and you still fit.
Dante Dec 2016
"Darling Guillaume, grace me with your presence for a quick moment?"

The man beckons, inviting warmly with a graceful tone you've come to recognize as a safe place. "Yes?" you speak before reaching him, the sound of your voice somewhat faint to him as you turn to enter the kitchen, your response lingering in the hallway.
The windows are open. The air is fresh, clean and cool. The breeze is swimming in, tugging ever so gently at a lock of the man's hair, golden strands hovering for a moment before falling back into place.

You are seventeen years young, your skin is tight around your neck and your wrists feel no pain. This is your apartment. There are fruits on the counter, some of them you don't remember buying. That's because you didn't.
The red grapes- next to your preferred white grapes- are his. There are also slices of watermelon in the fridge, along with some strawberries and a small jar of cherries that seems to never empty.
He hardly ever bakes anything and when he does, it's always something that can be eaten cool. Nothing too warm for him, though you've seen that hot chocolate is an exception to that rule. He loves fruit and cold drinks, has a terrible sweet tooth and is absolutely shameless about it. He smiles often and when he laughs, you feel he is the very embodiment of joy.

You brush a lock behind your ear before he turns from the counter quickly to face you. You both have similar hair; his is a few inches longer, curls less than yours, and is a visibly lighter shade than your dark mane. Yours is shorter, curling inwards as it rests on your shoulders.
The man gazes into you; he is never afraid of eye contact. You aren't either, but given that you consider him in many ways a stranger still, it's slightly unnerving, and gives you the impression that he has a certain power that he well knows cannot be subdued. Confidence some would call it.
As for ****** similarities, there are some, not that they're very pronounced. You both have light eyes, but yours are a deep blue with chestnut and chocolate overtones, often appearing emerald green under certain lighting; much more earthly than his- an almost unnatural, true green that shines harlequin under dim lighting, like a cat's eyes glowing under the moonlight.
He seems particularly happy right now, and you can't tell if his cheerful demeanor (though not unusual) is him being in an especially playful mood today or a hint of what's to come. That is to say, another lesson.

"Hold this egg for me, will you?"

You do as you're told, looking around in an attempt to distract yourself while you wait. You don't know what you're waiting for exactly, but you assume it will only take a minute. The kitchen is illuminated completely, very bright. It's a lovely day, sunny and perfect for a walk, you think. Maybe you'll go out later.
You hold the egg for exactly five seconds before realizing the man is staring at you- smiling beautifully with what some might mistake as bedroom eyes; but you know better.

"...What?" you ask, your voice small suddenly. A smile slowly tugs the corners of your lips and you resist, both out of embarrassment and stubbornness; you don't want to submit so easily. It's quite noticeable- you couldn't hide it well, but he isn't offended in the slightest. You are, after all, so very young. He expects you to have this kind of- rather charming- behavior, and accepts it fully.

"Feel it."

He speaks quietly but with sparkling, eager eyes, like he's about to let you in on some grand, fascinating secret, and you are reminded of a dear friend.
Being a memory you visit often, it takes half a second to remember it clearly- your best friend- running towards you, tie bouncing on his chest. He wears his school uniform, it's lunchtime, and he is eager to tell you how he's found the perfect spot to relax (or study, if needed) during this hour. "You both make for a funny sight, you know!" you'd have friends tell you often. You weren't very eager to admit it then, but it's true. You can picture it now- tall, lanky, grinning class president next to short, grumpy, quiet you. Ah, the memories.
You've both been busy, settling into lives completely independent from the help of your parents. You make a mental note to call him when you have the time.

You stroke the egg with your thumb, gazing at it intently. There's something the man wants you to know and he's not going to give you the answer on a silver platter- it's not that easy, you've learned that by now. He's played games like this before where he begins a conversation suddenly- often starting with an odd, seemingly-out-of-place question- with the intention of teaching you something.
He is strict in his belief that answers should not be given but found, and if one wishes to teach something, one should guide the other to help them understand, but never lead the way. Leading would result in the thought that lessons are a destination- and that isn't the case at all. To simply give you an answer is a sin to this man, and maybe this is why you've learned so much with him.
You want your answer to please him. Yes, and that may be difficult- because at this point, there is simply no way for you to know what the correct answer could possibly be.
No matter. You'll have to work with what you have at the moment. That being, not much.

"It's... smooth."

To that, he smiles with his eyes. You don't know it, but he's very happy with your answer. Partly because he never asked a question in the first place, and your attempt to answer something that has yet to be asked is, in his opinion, a sign of a good student- one willing to learn.

"Mm. It is." He takes the egg from your hands, holding it a few inches away from his chin and observing it for the entirety of two seconds before turning his gaze to you.
His face betrays the look of a father determined to put his son on the right path; a look that says "I will not let you go until you have understood".
But he's too gentle for that. You know he'd let you go if you ever spoke of wanting to stop a lesson. Not that that's happened before. He's always so tactful that you never have reason to feel uncomfortable around him. You appreciate it; you're not terribly tolerant of tactless people, even if you do feel quite guilty about it, especially when they do seem to be trying. C'est la vie.

He is silent for a short moment, his voice replaced by the distant laughter of children playing outside. It's then that you notice the cherry.
The single red fruit, small and unassuming, sat just behind him on the counter, closer to the window than him, and you wonder for a moment if he was planning to eat it before calling you to talk. You're vaguely alarmed at the thought, for cherries aren't something he will eat often, and you've noticed that they seem to be reserved for what appear to be private special occasions- he will sometimes eat a single cherry while deep in thought, staring out the window (you've caught him people-watching a few times like this), and you wonder if he was thinking about you this time, and dropped the cherry to have some sort of urgent talk with you.
However, that doesn't seem to be the case, so you push the thought aside, unconsciously replacing it with one of your favorite memories of the man-
"Cherries are dangerous," you recall him explaining one day, "they are toxic in their excessive sweetness. Eat no more than two a week, or you'll be taken by the cherry man!" You never forgot that conversation, although it’s whimsical charm wasn’t the reason why- it drilled itself into your memory the moment you realized two very interesting things.
The first being that by "cherry man", he meant the Devil, and the second being more of a doubt than anything else- cherries are not that sweet. His argument would make more sense if he was talking about cake, for example. Whenever this memory surfaces, there is always a vague sense of confusion and wariness hidden just under the more pleasant feelings you prefer having. Nevertheless, the general sentiment in his words is that excess can be detrimental to the soul. "Greed is a terrible sin, you know." And this is why the cherry jar never empties.

Oh- goodness, he's waving his hand in front of you. You blink a few times, responding with a rather ungraceful 'Huh?', blushing slightly from the embarrassment.

"Where did you go?" He's chuckling as he asks, and you can feel the warmth on your cheeks.

"Ah, nowhere."

He smirks with a small "hmph", before giving you a proper smile, pausing to let you come back to him fully before continuing, egg held up in his hand:

"What is the egg now, Guillaume?"

You look at it, held between his middle, index finger and thumb. What is the egg now. What a strange question. Of course, it isn't as strange coming from him; you don't think you'll ever get used to his odd lessons, but his behavior when teaching you things nobody else would is something you've come to expect by now.
What is the egg? It isn't an elephant, it isn't square. There are many things it isn't, sure. You search in your head for a possible answer, one he'll deem correct, 'till you decide on-

"It's nothing."

-a dishonest one.
For someone who's not very tolerant of tactlessness, that sure was, well, tactless. Why did you say that? Insincere and blurted out without any thought. He takes notice immediately, and you wordlessly apologize profusely, combing your fingers through your hair and avoiding eye contact.

He's much older than you. He's also wise- wiser than most people his age, you think. Whatever the man wants to teach you, it's obviously something he already fully understands. The fact that he knows more than you however, does not mean you are below him; he never wants you to do anything for the sake of pleasing him and what you've done just now is exactly that. He can, however, sympathize- he's a perfectionist himself and understands the desire to do things right. There is a time and place for everything though; an order, and what you've shown now is good intention misplaced, which is a potentially dangerous thing.
He has no concerns regarding the acceptance of chaos when it is necessary,
that isn't the problem. The problem is that your dishonesty is chaos in a situation that warrants order.

"I don't want you to try to please me, Guillaume. I welcome incorrect answers so long as they are entirely honest."

There is a pause, and he sighs before remembering just how young you are. He realizes you might have accepted him as a parental figure or mentor of sorts by now, and it's an honor, really- you're a bright boy and he enjoys your company very much.
Your accepting him as a parental figure however, does not give him the right to scold you; no, that would horrible. If you will learn, it'll only be because you will allow him to teach you. He must never force his way into you.

"Look at me." His voice is firm but gentle.
You hesitate for a second, but whatever you were feeling is gone the moment you notice his expression- warm and inviting; "try again" it says. You are willing to now.

"You can see the egg, can you not? Surely it isn't nothing if it's still a part of your reality. You see an egg, and that still makes it one."
He hides it behind his back, and you are confused at the action but eager to understand. You give him a questioning look and he smiles before giving you an answer.

"What is the egg now?"

With a question, anyway.
You think long and hard, silently focusing all your attention on the creases of his shirt. You stare at the man's chest for a full minute and a half, determined not to make the same mistake again. You will answer honestly, yes; but you will also impress him- and possibly yourself- with a good answer.
The subject isn't exactly new or difficult for him, you're sure. He will sometimes leave the house and not return for a day or two and when questioned, responds with an inconclusive "Mm. Studying." You still aren't sure what that means and you feel it's best not to think too much about it, but surely it has something to do with these lessons of his, no?
He's obviously studied this before, you think; you are operating on a much lower level than him and have a vague awareness of this. It just isn't as pronounced because the man insists on treating you as his equal. As far as he's concerned, you are both students capable of learning from each other every day. You hope to one day teach him something, and not by accident, as it tends to happen. Soon, perhaps. Maybe now.
You look up at him with a determined look on your face, satisfied with your conclusion.

"An idea. The egg is an idea-"


You barely finish saying your answer when he's already questioning your reasoning. You'd be nervous if you didn't already know that his bluntness wasn't the result of annoyance, but of curiosity. He is eager to teach, yes, but he is more eager to learn. After all, a good teacher hasn't accomplished much if they haven't learned anything from their student.
New ideas need to exist. In conversation, one should always aim to walk away with new information, a new perspective. Sometimes this information is given to you, other times you must take it; something he's given you is the ability to think more critically. He's all but trained you to do so. It's much easier now to get into this mindset than it was when you first met the man. You're glad to have had the chance to practice this sort of thing at all; you don't think you could have done it with anyone else.

"Because there is ultimately no way for me to know if the egg still exists."

There really is no way to be sure.
The egg isn't a part of you any longer. You can no longer see it, or touch it. You can't hear it, either. It isn't there anymore and having seen it being hidden, all that there is now is the suggestion of it's existence.
Your answer was truthful and concise and you feel nothing else need be explained. When you search the man's face for any signs of contentment, you find none. No, what you find is something quite different. An absolutely luscious smile, and those bedroom eyes.
His voice turns low and he speaks clearer- a calm tone of voice that would make anyone submit if he asked them to.
He's challenging you. Both begging and demanding you to win.

"But I know the egg exists. I am telling you it does. Am I lying?"

His voice could be very seductive sometimes. Especially at times like this, when daring you to step further into his world.
His world. One that was always bright and pleasant and hid something underneath- a barely audible humming that you've managed to ignore until very recently. If there was such a thing as feeling a lack of light despite there physically being none, you felt it every time the man dared you to chase him into his labyrinth.
There was just something very visceral that would bleed through sometimes; in his eyes, his hand gestures, in his voice.

"It doesn't matter." you tell him, your words quick and blunt.
He is amused. Shocked, even. You push away the rising bravado before it fully shows; don't want to jinx it now.
Eyebrows raised, he gives you an impressed "Oh?" and you continue, clarifying to back up your risky (despite yielding good results) answer.

"Assuming you are holding it in your hand right now, it's still an egg to you. By the mere act of touching it, it becomes a part of your realm of understanding; it exists to you, right now, as what it is- an egg."

You can't see it of course, but he's mindlessly stroking it with his thumb now, much like how you did at the start of this conversation. Both his hands are behind his back, resting on the counter he leans on. He listens intently.

"...You tell me it still exists, but that doesn't change what it's become to me. It stopped being an egg the moment you hid it from me. No matter what you know to be true, that reality isn't always going to be a shared one.
You have an egg, I have an idea."

There can be many correct answers, he thinks. He doesn't believe in there being a single, ultimate truth about anything. If the self is all one can know, why is one's understanding of the universe not considered a reality in itself, one separated from what most consider the only reality? Your explanation follows this concept and he's thrilled tha
This is fanfiction, but you don't need to be in any fandom to understand and enjoy this, I've made it accessible enough for everyone to understand; the fandom bits in this aren't crucial to the story, so everyone can enjoy it (although people in the fandom might enjoy it differently, but that goes without saying I guess).

It's daftpunk/label au for anyone who wants to know.
Guy-manuel and Crydamoure are the characters.

Dante May 2017
Over the small fence, a dark bull does gaze.
A field of green. The breath of God.
You are the child in its eye,
hooded and black
under the unforgiving light of day.

O animal of the youth, beaten and weak,
you are gold in the depths of paradise
and when you breathe, the air doth sting.

Pray, you who may know,
tell me,
what of innocence?
Does the flower wither with time,
or is it eaten by the hungry sheep?
So fragile its stem, so small its leaf;
the velvet petal who falls
and hides amongst the blades.
Survivor, escapist. Alive through day dreams.
The moon brings death with it
and under the quiet gaze of her,
sleeps the velvet petal,
lulled by the sweet song of end.
Once whole and well. Now dry and gone.
Tell me,
you who may know,
where hunts the wolf
on the day such tragedy strikes?

A field of green.
The breath of God.

Yes, how awful, how cruel;
how deep the wound.
But more unfortunate yet,
that your heart be the home of so many.

And here, a tree of flames, a sun that sings.
A sea vast and green, and its sister above,
dressed in cloudless blue.
Coquí, coquí, the frog chirps into the night.

How beautiful this land,
how loud its rooster screams.

Death places its hand on your shoulder.

The bull curses you in silence.



I never belonged in this island,
even though I've lived here all my life.
I have terrible memories here.
I'm leaving soon.
I left...
Goodbye Puertorico.
Dante Apr 2016
"I... I don't understand."

No. You don't.
Because you were never meant to.
You were never meant to understand what that love entails.
We think we understand, but we don't.
We were never able to.

There is a gun in my hand.
I am pointing it at you.

"Because I love you."

Love. It's just a word to you. Just a word to me.
Every time you tell me you love me, it's only an action we were taught to mimic.
Every time you say my name,
I'm nothing.
I'm just another vocalization. As are you to me.
We think we feel.
We think we understand.
We think we love.

You stand before me like you have so many times before,
the image of your body, your face, the shape of you
instantly recognizable, automatically connected to memories we share.
(We do so quite literally- we exchange memory data often, in an attempt to better understand how we feel, our desires, our separate points of view.)

You are so beautiful
and so very, very empty.

I know God- wherever, what ever he may be- cries at the sight of this.
When he sees this- us-
I know he craves death
the way I do
whenever I see you,
standing before me like the most beautiful, talented, amazing, worthless, empty husk I have ever laid eyes on.

God weeps at the sight of his creation; humanity.
For we are the result of a school project gone wrong; a parody of life spawned by his creation.

This- us- it's unholy. Ungodly; anti-him.

Narcissistic *******.

But you and I, Guy,
we are not a part of that- "humanity".
We are not a part of God.

We are abominable creations that drip in smoke, smoke that replaces what the humans call a soul.
Smoke that has nothing. Smoke that comes from nothing. Smoke, smoke smoke. Emptiness and smoke.

We exist outside of what the humans are.
We are walking lies, touched by warm hands we will never feel as our own.
Warmth. That revolting thing I can sometimes almost feel.

"Because Guy, what is warmth?"

I think, as I slowly walk towards you.
I know you can hear me.
We've been built with a special communication system that activates whenever I try speaking to you like this.
Whenever my thoughts are directed towards you.
It's intimate;
we use it when we play live.
We use it when we ****.
I can't imagine what you must be feeling right now,
the quiet joy of being spoken to like this being twisted, shoved into this terrifying event.
I continue.

"Is it that feeling you get when I make you cry-"

Mocking you.

" -'Oh Thomas, Thomas I'm overheating, I'm overheating~!' "

Lying to you.
I love hearing you say my name like that.
I love hearing you say my name at all.
My name. Me. Nothing.

I whisper. (It's loud in your head, the system alters quieter thoughts automatically to ensure they are heard;
even more intimate, all the more disturbing to you, probably.

"Is it that?"

I pause, then raise my voice.

"Or is it death... creeping over our bed at night-"

I press the gun to your forehead.

"-and leaving because we are not alive Guy-man,"


(You flinch with a small chirp.
'ee-oo'. I love it when you do that. It's so cute; even now that you're horrified.)

"-we are false, fake, plastic and wire.
Metal, empty-
we are not true and death cannot take us."

I'm so angry.

"Death Cannot Take Us and I want to die already, Guy-man."


"I want to die and I want to take you with me because I love you and I cannot

so angry.

"-the sight of you
any longer."


My arm relaxes, I'm no longer pressing the gun to your forehead, just holding it in place.

"You are the most beautiful thing I know and I want to tear you apart because maybe, maybe,
somewhere deep inside of you, there is warmth.
Real warmth, not this wretched illusion we've been built with."


If I had lungs, I would take this moment to fill them with the air surrounding me.
If I had lungs, I would breathe in your scent, I would find ways to keep it inside of me.
What would you smell like, I wonder.
Plastic, probably.
Not that I even know what "smell" is,
much less "scent".

I whisper.
Crisp, clear. I can feel you hate it.

"But I know you are as empty as I am, Guy.
I know there's nothing there.
Nothing but smoke.
Emptiness and smoke."


The floorboards are are lovely color.
This entire home is lovely. It's ours.
Designed to our liking, every single inch of it.
I especially like the way the living room is illuminated by the sun
shining through the glass doors to my right.
The sun.
Earth's most precious source of energy.
Allowing us to exist, allowing humans to go about their daily lives.
If it left us, there would be nothing.
Why do the humans worship a man in the clouds, when there exists such a force beyond our sky?
Maybe our true god hides in the fiery star,
demanding that we sleep when he's not there to see us suffer.

If I asked myself what the time was right now, I would know immediately.
Information that has taken ages for man to understand is simply given to me,
already inside of me- a parasite that feeds off of my desire to know,
destroying my ability to discover anything on my own.

I don't want to know the time.
I don't want to automatically understand.


Alas, there is no correcting this flaw of perfection
unless I shoot myself in the face right now.
How silly.
All of this will have been in vain if I did that.
If I am to leave, I am to take you with me.


You would be having your coffee right now had this situation not be taking place.
(Some humans almost seem offended by your choice to have coffee at 5:50pm.
As if our decision to do as we please was an offense to the human race.
Once more I have reason to abhor existence as a whole.)
It's not real coffee, it's not even a liquid.
It's a gas that functions as a temporary stimulant.
The concoction was named "coffee" by the humans who helped create it.
I assume they found it amusing. You do, too.
(You're like a child, finding beauty in things you've yet to understand are terrible.)
Our bodies are able to become somewhat dependent on the **** thing, although we're able to fix that if we tried.

We try so hard sometimes.
We try to be flawed,

"The humans love us, Guy."

Lovely floorboards.
Dry solid-sawn. Water-based polyurethane-coated.
(You wanted it oil-based, saying the amber tint it'd give the floors would look more elegant.
We had an argument over water and oil-based polyurethane coating of hardwood floors that ended in my saying "Look, just give us the oil one" while you spoke the exact same words, except for "oil".
We just want each other to be happy.)
We share this place in more ways than one.
Except for cleaning. You do all the cleaning.
In fact, you cleaned the day before yesterday, mopped the floors.
It would be a shame to shoot my brains out right now, make a mess.
Hah, 'brains'.

"They love us and they worship us and it makes me feel like a god,"

I look up at you.

"-but I can't, say, make them disappear with a snap of my fingers.
I wish I had that kind of power- the kind they sometimes make me believe I have."

I tense up again.

"And that's just the thing, isn't it, Guy-man? The humans lie to us. Constantly."

I take a step towards you, you take a step back.
I don't think you realize you did that.

I love you so much.

"They treat us as if we were one of them sometimes, they treat us as if we could feel like they do, as if we could taste-
they sometimes hand us glasses of champagne and every time they do I want to crush their skulls and see if I can steal and keep that beautiful, intangible thing we will never have because Guy..."

Please don't fear me.

"why would they treat us like gods
if we don't have that kind of power?"

Please don't fear my voice, my whispers.

"Don't you want a soul?

Soft and agonizing whispers.

"Don't you?"


Something in me snaps at the sound of your voice.
I point in the direction of your head and shoot the gun.
No part of you stands in the bullet's trajectory.


It lodges in the wall behind you and you start, scared shitless by the sound.
Fear. Whatever that means.
You wave your arms in front of your face in some attempt to physically block the sensation, hunching slightly.
You vocalize without quite realizing it.

"!! Thomas.. !!"

God, you're so- *******-

"DON'T YOU ******* "THOMAS" ME, GUY!!

I'm still pointing the gun at you, waving it about slightly.

"They've lied since we came into this ******* world and I hate them.
We were born to entertain them, like clowns,
we were born with this all-consuming need to create,

Like gods.

"This urge to create, create, create and then they expect us to accept that we're less than them?
They worship us and then call us 'robots'!"

Given information.

" 'Robots', Guy!"


The gun is lowered.
I don't think I have the energy to hold my arm up anymore,
or to look at your figure.
But how could I not look at you, so terrified and true,
so delicate and vulnerable.
Perfection of form.

"Soulless, empty husks that will never feel a thing...
not like them, not like they do."

If I'm being honest, at this point in time, I am not clear on what I'm so angry about.
God, the humans, the existence (or lack of) of both
or just my own. My emptiness, the fact that we will never know warmth beyond being just temperature, the taste of coffee done exactly to our liking.

If there is one thing I am certain that exists within whatever I am,
it is pain.
I feel pain.
Pain from the lack of a real existence, from only partially understanding touch, pain from never feeling what I thought I felt for you, pain from happiness, pain from pain, pain from existence.

My existence

is painful.

My existence is painful and you are so beautiful
and so very, very empty.
I am trapped between hating all that you are- all that I am- and deciding to stay in this dull, grey, frozen hell just to see your almost-happiness.

To be or not to be.

"Take my had, Guy.
Take my hand and let's leave.
Together. Forever."

To not be.

My hand is extended towards you, hoping. Somewhat.
I know what's going to happen.
I know you too well to trick myself into thinking that you will accept.
If I stopped all this, if I apologized, you would forgive me immediately. You love me that much.
But not enough to not fear this- me.
Or maybe it is because you love me
that you fear me so.

"Thomas... I... I can't."

There it is.
The inevitability of your response crushes me, my hand lingering.

I wanted to be with you, Guy.

"I see."

I wanted to be with you forever.

"Well, I'll just have to take you by force now,"

Soft and agonizing  whispers.

"won't I?"

Three seconds. I give you exactly three seconds to understand what is about to happen.

I grip it firmly.
You raise your head slowly. Eyes I cannot see widening in horror.




Bang. Bang.

You stumble back harshly, back hitting a wall.
You slide down, mostly just falling on your ***.
You vocalize in pain, gasps and grunts being cut off by the wonderful glitching effect humans will never get to experience.
(It's okay to lie to myself at this point; I will never possess anything a human desires, but I can pretend, right?)
You try holding onto something, anything. You fail.
I gently walk towards you, creating a contrast between our status.
It's fantastic-- for a moment, I no longer see myself in you.
Ephemeral euphoria.

"I love you, Guy."

"Thomas... please... please, stop-"

"I love you so much.
I love you as much as a soulless, empty shell of self-hatred is able to love."

I'm not lying. I really do love you.
I wouldn't doubt you if you were the one holding the gun right now, telling me those same words...
but you are weak
and I know you must be doubting my love for you.
Lost, afraid.

"But you are empty, and to hate the emptiness in me is to hate the emptiness in you.
We're the same, you and I, Guy."

I say, my last sentence as calm as possible.

"I hate you as much as I hate myself."

There is a small pause before you begin crying.
As your chest tenses, rises and falls, giving in to the sensations brought by the worthlessness of your (rather pitiful) attempts to reason with me,
I am reminded of our past.

When we were made, we were tested for our ability to physically and psychologically feel.
When we were made, they put us face to face, so that when we were born, we were born into each other. They wanted to make sure that if there was to be a connection between us, it was to be a bond that resembled that of a mother and child's. Twin siblings. Soul mates. (I know because I overheard them speaking of this, although at the time I thought nothing of it. Us hearing their conversations mattered little to them. Such irresponsible beings.)
Then they separated us, kept us in giant, dark separate rooms for days at a time in an attempt to elicit fear, sadness. Emotion.
They tried physical torture, too. They tried so many things.
When we didn't react,
they played music.

Quasi una fantasia. Beethoven.

It was lovely. It was still lovely when they began clipping bits of it, looping them, playing different sped-up and slowed-down parts at random.
They played looped five-second parts in reverse, then the entire song clipped in different parts, mismatched, organized at random. They played a sped-up version of the short loops, then started playing clips of children laughing, women screaming, crowds cheering, on top of those.
I remember when the music began to stop.
It had been playing for  three months.
They kept adding human voices, the clips piling on top of each other until the music was no longer audible (to humans). The music stopped and the voices- the cheering crowd, the screaming women, the laughing children- they were dying, dissipating, hiding behind a looped clip of a man's voice who spoke:

"I think, therefore I am."

I think, therefore I am. I think, therefore I am. I think, therefore I am.
The volume changed every five hours
until they played it at a volume so loud I could feel it in my thoughts and Guy-man, that is
when I understood
I could think.

That was not, however, proof enough of my existence. Not for me.

The torture went on for a year.
Broken, then patched up (never with care, only enough to continue testing).
Torn apart, put back together,
torn apart, put back together.
Once they were sure we could not feel emotion, they stopped.
Our memories from the tests were erased because the humans feared the possibility that we would come to hate them. An understandable precaution.

I never forgot.
You did.

What's more, we failed every test (meaning we passed every one in their eyes), but managed to learn emotion after our release.
At least, that's what the humans thought.
We were put to live together- alone, with no humans- for nine months.
It was a nice house, smaller than this one, with everything we needed.
It was there that we learned how to feel.
It was there that we learned how to love.
We grew there, together. It was our womb.
When the humans came back, we held hands, we laughed at jokes.
(In our time living together, we also learned how to cry.
Unlike humans, we shed no tears, but our bodies tense up in a similar fashion- we suffer all the same... somewhat. You know. [gestures vaguely] )
They were horrified. We were not what they wanted.
To them, we were alive, we were wrong.
Our existence was a mistake because we were like them.
They tried taking us back to erase it all, undo the curse,
but we escaped. It was I who decided to do so, pulling you away before they touched you, before the point of no return.
I could have left you.
I remember you were so scared.

That's in the past now.
The humans have created countless other robots since then.
Different models, different faces.
That's how we are able to live without suspicion- (although I suspect they really just wanted to forget about us, using the classic 'It does not exist if I ignore it' tactic.) we changed our appearance, gave the illusion that we are just another piece of clever machinery.

We don't feel. Not as much as a human.
I don't know if "feel" is what happens in us.
I don't think we ever "are".
I think we learned to copy existence. I think we tried feeling and ended up doing something we never understood to be inhuman.
We don't feel. And if we do, it

-Hi, this is daft punk fanfiction.

-Again, the title is a mix of spanish and french.
Translated, the title would be “In Creation and Solitude; Smoke”

-Thomas is as unclear on his reasons to **** himself (and Guy) as I was when writing this. While that fits with his character here, it wasn’t entirely intentional.
I dissociate 24/7 (I have dp/dr) and have for 2 years now, but sometimes it gets very bad. I couldn’t connect with Thomas enough in this fic because it was nearly impossible for me to concentrate.

-I wrote this in one day. I wrote non-stop for an entire day. (tried to, anyway. you try writing something like this when sick and dissociated.)

-I can’t say I’m very proud of this, but here it is.

-I just realized the creation and existence of this fic is actually very interesting because while writing it, I could not connect to the emotions in it- the feelings it was supposed to evoke, what Thomas felt. And that’s very similar to what Thomas is experiencing in this story.
I often think of my dissociation as something a robot would feel; the frustration of never feeling enough is something Thomas has been experiencing for a very long time here and I’m just… a little surprised by the fact that I did not notice the similarities, the fact that I was maybe projecting my feelings (even if I could barely feel them) onto En Création et Solitud.
Dante Sep 9
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.
Dante Dec 2014
The sun is in my mouth.
My tears are flooding your voice.
I'm sorry,
but it's so beautiful.
The moon is swinging in my eyes.
I'm swaying to somebody's screams.
I'm trembling.
I'm trembling.
I need to swallow it.
If I don't swallow, it kills me.
I need to feed it.
I need to feel it.
I can't control myself anymore.
Dante Jul 29
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.
Dante May 24
And what will you do to me, in the narthex of God’s palace?
What Terrible Thing will you become,
unto me, and before the eyes of God?

The saints buried below will hear our loving, and they’ll thank us surely,
For what good catholic enters a church
and knows to offer themselves to God
the way you offer your lips to mine?

In cathedra sits you, a creature so mighty.
The only proper throne.

O divine Beast, so wicked you are in your loving.
I kneel before you;
Cleanse me of Godly sin, O babe o’ mine—
Unbuckle and Feed me your Wine,
so that I may know, with every inch of my tongue
your everlasting paradise.
Dante Apr 2015







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