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day 5 of @spnpoetryrenaissance’s month of poetry: family (derogatory). dean’s POV from the end of the pilot
(kind of a loose adherence to the theme here, but i think it fits well enough)
fanoftheages reblogged
spn poetry month: day 3 - "childhood"
having thoughts about hunters and vultures and the scraps of normalcy the winchesters survived on all their lives
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of all the girls that ran with wolves,
i was not the biggest or the strongest
or the fastest. i did not become the
alpha. i did not love the moon.
but i never fell behind. i fought with
tooth and nail. i knew what it meant
to gnaw off an arm to save myself, and
for that, i was one of them.
so i slept in mud and meadows. i ate with
bloody hands. i always pounced to kill. i
always smiled to love. i dreamed of my father
and my former self and i missed it no more
than i missed the sun. i ran until i fell.
of all the girls that ran with wolves,
i was not the smartest or the meanest
or the best. but god, let them know
that i was loved.
let them know that even now, even through
six feet of dirt, i can hear them howl for me
instead of the moon.
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he is always on the other side of your heartbeat.
a persistence, a pestilence.
the walls in your chest rotting away.
the walls in your chest peeling.
a panic.
he is not allowed to get his golden hands around your heart.
he is not allowed-
that first night, black thread unspooling at your touch.
that first night, hounds.
he is not a body, but he is a boy.
he is your boy.
time unravels in your fingers and you take each moment apart with your teeth.
chew, swallow.
do not think about how much longer.
do not think.
the howling won’t quiet, time keeps forcing itself through your lips.
you stick your fingers in your ears.
you stick your fingers down your throat.
time spills from your mouth- blueberries, mint, honey, orange sunsets, the entire night sky.
take it back, you scream.
take it all back, let me start over.
it wasn’t enough.
it wasn’t enough.
he will go softly into the dark.
he will go softly and
that’s all there is.
MORIBUND, kat excelsors (via excelsors)
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the boy who runs with wolves
is stumbling.
his hands, once steady,
have begun to tremble
relentlessly,
his heart st-stutters
in his sleep.
at dawn he tastes copper
on his tongue, lips dripping red
blood smeared on his fingers.
he looks in the mirror
to find his teeth bared
in macabre mirth.
is it his blood?
the screams that rip at his insides,
are they his own screams?
you reach for him
with your gleaming eyes,
your gentle hands
your gasping words—this isn’t you.
but to what use?
the boy blinks and sees death before him, turns
to find destruction in his wake.
he no longer knows himself.
you think he still knows you?there are constellations
dusted along his skin
but stars burn out, becoming black holes
that eat at his limbs
seeping darkness through his pores—
he is a black hole
bent on consuming himself.
fall back
lest you be caught in his collapse.the boy who runs with wolves
can run no more.
how can he run from himself?
this is you.
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- dean & cas
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—dean winchester
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—dean winchester
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you’re a fire in the hazy morning sun:
mist and smoke and greys and yellows.
you’re a seastorm on a sweet summer night:
water and waves and blues and greens.
you are in love with a jumbled-up revolution:
a boy too lost in a forest to see the colors
spilling over from your dreams.
falling in love with magic is one thing.
falling in love with a magician is another.
you don’t think merlin ever fell in love
with a knight, do you?
little dreamer boy with a warrior heart –
love wasn’t meant to be easy for you.
you’re a natural disaster; he’s the apocalypse.
on loving a magician | m.j. (via fairytalesques)
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and i buried religion, but you dug it up again
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“Dean turns seventeen today. We went shooting. Then I sent him out on his first hunt. [...] Simple salt-and-burn mission. Nuns in love with each other, then discovered. Killed themselves. [...] I figured Dean would take care of it no problem.” -John Winchester’s Journal, January 24th
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We aren't machines to program and reprogram That wasn't what this was meant to be.
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“please god,” he begs
and you wonder why a god prays in a church
and you kiss your own prayer into his mouth
“please god,” you beg
and you wonder why a god kisses you back
it was possible that there were two gods in this church (via just-gently)
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some part of you knows
you’re a china shop bull
your talent has always been in
the breaking of things
there’s a hitch in your throat
when you use the word
“home”
its letters are too sharp for your tongue
(you’ve never lived anywhere
that hasn’t ended up
blood sweat tear stained)
and you never meant to let
your hands or your voice
get so rough
but that’s what happens when your
words have claws just like
your fingers and
they always say you can’t go home again
and you’re running out of room
for the skeletons in your closet, boy
some people were just
made to be haunted
how do you tell when you’re dreaming? - MD (via rustypolished)
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