#poetsoftumblr

Desire isn’t something done to us. It lives inside us—wild, molten, ancient. Our hands know the map of our pleasure. Our minds can build entire worlds from a single gasp.

I don’t need someone to turn me on. I am the spark. I lit my own fire, and I’m still fucking burning.

So let’s end the lie. Women are not passive. We’re not empty vessels waiting to be filled. We are the storm, the tremor, the pulse, the fucking quake.

Skeleton excerpt

From “Love is a Long Execution” available here

©️dlg @antepaths

I hate apologies. I hate the condescension in your tone and I hate the pressure to forgive.

I hate the accounting— The egocentric audit That apologies only come because you feel bad For the actions and words of your own capable hands and tongue.

Your deafening regrets spew out Like depositing a coin into a fountain And waiting for your return on investment.

I hate that your words are your currency, And you trade your penances for A dividend of sympathy from me.

You don't want my clemency; You want to liquidate your guilt. You're looking for a ledger that doesn't show your deficits, And you expect me to balance your books.

You curate your regrets like a portfolio— Cherry-picking the ones that sound like "mistakes" And writing off the ones that were deliberate choices. You say you "didn't mean it," As if your tongue didn't have to practice the shape of the lie Before it ever left your mouth.

You use a tax-exempt interpretation Just so you can sleep at night. You want to trade a “sorry” for a full settlement, As if my memory is an asset you can just devalue.

But I am not the fountain for your counterfeit coins, And I am not the lamp underwriting your best version. I won't be the one to tell you you’re an honest man Just because you finally feel the interest on your actions.

speaks of how gently

O stress solidifica do dorso um eco de massa Pesando um sepultamento entalado O elemento feito de nuvens manhãs mal amanhecidas E tu te tornas eternamente um condutor de tensões

O empenho é extasiado com o gozo Uma máscara construída da vertigem derretida A obsessão transmutará um meio para qual Possa dançar a morte e devora-la sem compromisso

Guardará Eros em seu peito A luz que desobstrui caminhos Um farol ao senhor injusto Observando o excesso em domínio

A flecha é uma noiva que contamos Todos os nossos ecos como Se acedêssemos fósforos Em um buraco no chão

Eclipsar essa fragilidade Em cada chance ou gesto Encontrar a fera abstrata E dela deverá intervir um impasse

Minha bela quimera, ainda há tempo Um espetáculo tão obsceno tecido Diretamente dos cílios, eis a fragmentação Para usurpar um álibi que redimirá a vaidade

Me carregaria a reminiscência passional Como se fosse uma arma dúbia Como se eu mesmo fosse uma arma dúbia Cercada de segredos e amnésias