brokeback.
@kreophagos
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mr saintiphagos. sporadic posts featuring excerpts from literature, various media, and original content.
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Joined June 2021
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Last Seen Profiles
my boytoy came without instructions and now it's committed several war crimes.
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"i love you."
"again."
"i love you."
"again."
"i love you."
"again."
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in my worship, i kiss your spine and chant, whispering, "i love you, i love you," as though prayer. holy light burns on my finger-tips when my hands find your shoulders, and in this union i take my communion.
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excerpt from "an old dog can't learn new tricks; the nature of parental trauma."
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i love you. i love you. i love you. i'll write it in waves. in skies. in my heart. you'll never see, but you will know. i'll be all the poets, i'll kill them all and take each one's place in turn, and every time love's written in all the strands it will be you.
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you touch me and suddenly i feel a little less war torn. i'm not sure what peace is supposed to feel like, but i think it may feel a lot like you.
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'i've never been loved. i don't know how to be loved.'
he'd it confessed so quietly, like a secret.
it's the most natural thing in the world; reverence in his touch when he reaches out, takes both hands in his.
'can i teach you?'
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my teeth should graze him, my teeth should haunt the crook of his neck. i didn't know whether i wanted to devour or worship, but i understood he should cry out only for me.
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i know i was made to be a weapon, i know i cannot ask for warmth, but please, god, please, i am tired of being a knife. i do not want to be this violence anymore.
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"i've never been loved. i don't know how to be loved."
he'd it confessed so quietly, like a secret.
it's the most natural thing in the world; reverence in his touch when he reaches out, takes both hands in his.
"can i teach you?"
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i kissed his knuckles, each of them, split and bloodied. i lapped at the wounds, and thought his blood was mine. i pressed a kiss to his closed fist, and knew that his protection was mine. the dog on my leash, the lover who hung on every word off my lips.
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he kisses you, because you're cold. he makes himself a hearth in your heart, because it's empty.
bringing new kindling for the flame with every touch & broken gasp—
he loves you,
slaving away to feed your fire, even when the embers lick at his fingers.
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how selfish it is to be a wolf and love a lamb. your love comes in red and it tastes like iron, and you must learn to love it from a distance.
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you show him your half–healed scars, he shows you his scabbed knuckles. you kiss the ghosts of each other's wounds, and then you kiss each other.
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"digging into the heart of the cannibal romance," by mina tobya in the michigan daily.
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how selfish it is to be a wolf and love a lamb. your love comes in red and it tastes like iron, and you must learn to love it from a distance.
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always weary, always tired. the days drag on and i have become fatigued even at the thought of my own body stumbling between doorways. the seasons change. i do not. i make a grave of this mattress.
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the hands that cradled your face and tilted it upwards to kiss your forehead are soaked in unfathomable quantities of blood.
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beautiful. crushingly so. you look like the rest of my life.
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you were kissing my bruises with a tenderness i'd not yet seen from you. you were crying, when you told me you loved me.
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'tell me, will the grief ever pass?'
'no. but it will change. it will feel like an open wound for a long time. there will always be a scar, but someday you'll treat it as a reminder of your love.'
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does it haunt you? your past, the names splotched in red, the smiles you'll never see again? do you lay awake at night, begging not to dream of what could have been?
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but how am i meant to stop aching for you? how am i meant to grieve you now? you've left, you're gone, and the earth is so much colder for it. what am i without my sun?
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in another life, i would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.
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i know i was made to be a weapon, i know i cannot ask for warmth, but please, god, please, i am tired of being a knife. i do not want to be this violence anymore.
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i fell in love with the concept of martyrdom. to be filled so completely with a love for something to be willing to suffer terribly for it, to die for it. and, oh god, how i then found it with you—
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he's kissing me and all the time i'm thinking, do you know? do you know how much danger we’re in?
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oh? i'm a monster? perhaps you should speak to me more softly, then. monsters are dangerous.
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but death, oh gentle death, how he holds me like a lover; wraps his cloak over my weary and weathered shoulders, kisses my temple and whispers sweet & fondly: "i have waited a lifetime for you, dearest. come, i will not wait again."
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'this is so romantic' and it’s two characters trying to kill each other.
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i swallow it raw. every tear, every sound of grief that might try to fall from my lips. it tastes like flesh, like blood. like i might be lying to myself about not missing you.
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you don't have to die to matter. / you don't have to be covered in blood to deserve a warm bath.
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he's kissing me and all the time i'm thinking, do you know? do you know how much danger we’re in?
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you're an angel, i'm a dog. or you're a dog, and i'm your man.
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and my hands are not clean, maybe they will never be. but they can still carry you home when you're ready to sleep.
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he was really laughing then. he said, "i'm not a religious person but i do sometimes think god made you for me."
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grief is an amputation, but hope is incurable hemophilia: you bleed and bleed and bleed.
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i look at him, with a great fondness and a suffocating sense of melancholy i have no memory to pass blame to. maybe the same kind of feeling of regret i would hold for someone i could have spent a lifetime with.
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would you kiss me? would you? if i asked you to? if i told you to?
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what a sick little head, your love always turns into obsession.
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he's been burned, bruised, beaten, any number of words to describe how the world's tried to ruin him and still, he touches. he shines and he laughs and he knows to love without fear. and it's radiant.
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excerpt from "how to be a dog," by andrew kane in rattle 69, fall 2020.
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he kisses you, because you're cold. he makes himself a hearth in your heart, because it's empty.
bringing new kindling for the flame with every touch & broken gasp—
he loves you,
slaving away to feed your fire, even when the embers lick at his fingers.
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i liked how he said my name. as if the syllables were the first notes to a song he loved to sing.
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and i want a love that falls as fast as a body from the balcony, and i want a kiss like my heart is hitting the ground.
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to be mutually possessive of each other in the way hunters are, stalking prey and taking what is ours. that is the tangent of us. that is where we meet.
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my gentlest friend,
it is your favorite pastime to kill me again and again and again. unwitting sadist, you. i croon for your marks and claws. may you never know.
yours, so long as you will have me.
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just so you know attempted murder is a love language. idk i just think you should be more receptive to how i express myself.
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it haunts me. his laughter. soft cadences, such enchanting melodies, the way his song would never seem to end. that's not the truth, is it? it did end. as abruptly as a bird having its neck snapped.
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grief isn't empty. it takes shape in the form of your silhouette, your shadow, the scent of (our) bedsheets.
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'we were always going to say goodbye, weren't we?'
'yeah, i think so.'
'i loved you though. i loved you so much.'
a pause.
'i know, i know. i loved you too.'
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my teeth should graze him, my teeth should haunt the crook of his neck. i didn't know whether i wanted to devour or worship, but i understood he should cry out only for me.
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you guide my hands down your sides, to your hips, and in my palms there is now the weight of the world. the curve of my world. suddenly i'm a little more breathless, i know i've lost myself in the mirror of your dark eyes.
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something about you is soft like an angel, and something inside you is violence and danger. i knew from the moment we met, you are a dangerous thing.
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you'd laughed once, and said, "i wish someone would write about me like that." what you couldn't have known is that the pen was mine, i was the author, and i had devoted every stroke of ink to you.
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he had me with a grip on my throat or a dog on a leash. and i would follow blindly, wherever he would lead me; with the zeal of a martyr and the obedience of a soldier.
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murderous love. treacherous love. deadly love. love. love. the only living thing in this world. the madness of love.
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blood becomes you. the way you wear it, how it becomes both delicate and warm. red is your color.
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when i first met you, you looked at me as if you knew something about me that i didn't know myself. you saw me for the man i hadn't yet become, and you lit the path for me to get there.
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i would suffer through every universe just to be by your side again.
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you are so in love with this boy that the thought of not being with him, you'd rather die than not be with him, you understand?
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there is no greater love than the love the wolf feels for the lamb-it-doesn’t-eat.
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he was another knife. i could feel it. a different sort, but a knife still. i did not care. and i thought: give me the blade. some things are worth spilling blood for.
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there is degradation in loving you, you leave my heart battered. there is something filthy about the way you love me. but a dog always finds its way back home.
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"I NEED YOU IN MY GUTS RIGHT FUCKING NOW!"
"jesus christ, i'm removing a bullet, don't say it like that!"
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i kissed his knuckles, each of them, split and bloodied. i lapped at the wounds, and thought his blood was mine. i pressed a kiss to his closed fist, and knew that his protection was mine. the dog on my leash, the lover who hung on every word off my lips.
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i want to hold you close, skin pressed against you tight, as i whisper in your ear; i want to fucking tear you apart.
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no one will kiss him because his lips are cracked; / no one will kiss him because he tastes like smoke; / no one will kiss him because he screams in his sleep.
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maybe, i just want to lie down and be allowed to be tired. i've fought so long. the sleep would be nice.
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my love for your shall live forever. you, however, did not.
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but death, oh gentle death, how he holds me like a lover; wraps his cloak over my weary and weathered shoulders, kisses my temple and whispers sweet & fondly: "i have waited a lifetime for you, dearest. come, i will not wait again."
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he was holding him too softly, with too much tender assurance that he felt something sick twisting in his gut, like shame at himself.
'but i am a monster,' he says, desperate for him to heed this warning. (he means: save yourself.)
'then you are my monster.'
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i want to weep, she thought. i want to be comforted. i'm so tired of being strong. i want to be foolish and frightened for once.
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you are the knife i turn inside myself; that is love. that, my dear, is love.
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one night, my father and i sat side by side when he asked me if i had anything to be sorry for.
"i turned out like you."
silence. nothing but silence.
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"why do you do this, again and again?"
"it's all i know."
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love is consumption. digging my teeth into your shoulder, bite by bite, swallowing you. you will thank me for this, and you not would have it any other way.
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he won't stop worrying his canines to your wrist. and you know, in your throat and in your heart, that feeding him only makes him a greater monster. or maybe, perhaps, you're the glutton. you don't want him to leave, do you?
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i lay with you, watching your chest rise and fall, in the summer heat. i twist the locks away from your eyes, tuck them back to your ear, and think to myself: let june never end. let summer's love always be warm and full of life.
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