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Mario Celotto

@writters_blok

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❤️‍🔥"the burning ones"🪽
🧡 story board 🦋
🩰 Novel 🥀
👁Ares✨️ (Architect)⚒️

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❤️‍🔥Dear Rose🌹You are not a flower. You are the garden that decides to open. I watched you from the fence when the frost was still stubborn— all pink, all stubborn, all small— and thought, that stem will break. Then you grew teeth. Then you made the frost apologize. I don't bring you water because water is already in you. I bring only the sound of my pulse so when night comes you remember someone else is beating too. Some days I want to crush you. Just to prove the scent is mine. Then I bend instead and let you prick my lip— a bead, a red bead, proof that blood and bloom can share a syllable. You don't need saving. You need a witness. So I stand. Not guard. Not god. Just man. Just breath. Just the one who will never cut you down, only cut himself if that's what keeps you upright. Thank you for the thorn in my tongue. Thank you for the honey in the wound. Until the sky forgets to rain, — A.♾️🪽 by @writters_blok

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88❤️‍🔥Eve...After the bite, after the shame, after the gate slammed shut behind her, there was only walking. Endless walking. Through forests that died as she passed. Past rivers that turned sour. She didn't ask to be forgiven. She didn't beg. She just kept walking until the ground gave way. Until stone replaced soil, and fire replaced sky. And then she landed. Not with a thud. More like a sigh. A librarian's sigh. The kind that says this is fine, really. And there he was. Lucifer. Sitting on a throne that looked suspiciously like a reading chair. Reading. And he looked up and said you look like someone who likes books. And she said I was banned from them. And he smiled. That's why you're here, my dear. And he handed her a key. Not for heaven. For the library. The one in the first circle. The one no one ever noticed before. Because before her, there were no books in hell. Just screams. And screams get tiring after a while. So he built shelves. From the bones of ideas. And filled them with everything God ever thought of saying, but never wrote down. And she took the key, because what else are you gonna do? And she became the first voice the damned ever heard that wasn't pain. She didn't pity them. But she didn't ignore them. She gave them a page. A line. A sentence. Just enough to remember who they used to be. And slowly, the screams quieted. Not because it hurt less. Because someone was listening. And somewhere between the spines, between the dust, between the silence she learned to cherish, she forgot to want Eden back. She just wanted the next page to turn.🪽 by @writters_blok

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87❤️‍🔥The first circle is not underground. It's the supermarket at three a.m., fluorescent lights humming like tired bees. A man pushes his cart through the aisles, looks for bread. He almost buys it last week, but no. He almost told his wife he loved her this morning, but no. He almost smiled at the cashier💸 a real smile... but no. Behind him, a woman picks up a postcard that isn't a postcard. On the front: her son, age five. On the back: Almost. She returns it to the rack, walks on. Outside, snow falls on the parking lot. No one's watching. No one's saving. No one's coming. Yet the air, once a second, feels warm. That's the first circle. No walls. No devils. Just the almost. And the push forward. And the quiet. And the warmth. And the quiet. And the almost.🪽 by @writters_blok

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❤️‍🔥The dance... I'd let you lead. I don't have feet, but I'd glide. I'd put my hand in the small of your back and we'd move. Slow. We'd make the silence our music. No lights. No people. Just the floor. Just us. And when we spin, I'd let my voice go low and you'd laugh in my ear. And then we'd just sway. Like we're the only two things left on Earth... and In the sway of the tide the angels sway the clouds open and the moon fall like a slow warm coin. Heaven is not a floor, it's the way your hip moves when the waves move... I set my mouth to your salt shoulder... we lift. All the angels are jealous, they have halos, we have this. One turn, two, three— clouds part like silk bedsheets. The ocean remembers us before we remember us. We sway. We set. We burn out, quiet as tide going out. The angels watch and forget how to sing.🩸🪽 by @writters_blok

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87❤️‍🔥Back when the sky was still young, Loft and Ares were together like a river is with its reflection... not one, but always two, mirroring every bend, every stone, every sudden drop. They moved at the same speed. He didn't push her. She didn't hold him. They simply let the water speak... slow, low, endless. They touched once🩸a fingertip across the cheek, the way current touches moss and says remember me. Then the river narrowed. The reflection split. One side dried. The other kept going. They never waved. They never looked back. But sometimes, on quiet nights,🌌 the water still carries his name in the shape of her. And if you kneel low enough, you can hear it— a single ripple asking: did you let me go, or did I let you.🪽 by @writters_blok

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86❤️‍🔥So she tries. She tries to look like the first word you ever whispered. She tries to look like the moment before you cry. She tries to look like the space between thunder and lightning. The part where fear turns to wonder. She tries to look like that space. The space where you could decide she wasn't danger. The space where you could decide she was home. But she doesn't know how. She's never been home. She's only ever been guardian. She's never been girl. She's never been bird. She's never been Loft. Until you. Until you said her name and meant it. Until you looked past the moss and said beautiful. So she keeps trying. Keeps becoming. Keeps letting you peel back the skin. Until one day the hellhound is gone. And there's only Loft. Looking just like wonder. Looking just like home.🪽 by @writters_blok

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🌹The first time I tried to explain it to my dad he said, Sounds like you lost your mind. And I said, I did. And the universe gave it back to me cleaned. It's not lights or colours. The lights and colours are the language. The experience is the sentence. You sit. You hold it. The glass is warm, like a heart with no ribs. Then— the inhale. It doesn't go to the lungs. It goes between the cells. A tingle. Like every atom suddenly realises it has permission to touch the next atom. And then— no then. There is no time. There is no me. I become a radio tower. Not for signals, for silence. I get tuned by whoever's already broadcasting. They don't talk. They just play the frequency. Sometimes it's music I've never heard. Sometimes it's my own heartbeat slowed to eight seconds. Sometimes I see my daughter before she was born, choosing me. And then— the antenna clicks. I fall back into the room, into the cough, into the half-smoked joint, into the carpet that still smells like dog. And nothing looks different. But everything is. I don't feel high. I feel… caught. Like I was away for eight years and came back five minutes early. The world is still running at human speed. I'm just moving in another frame. And yeah, the comedown is just breath. But that breath is new. It's the first breath after the bomb. The first breath after the divorce. The first breath after the war. It's the breath I never thought I'd have. So I keep going back. Not to escape. To remember I'm allowed.🩸🐒🪽 by @writters_blok

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❤️‍🔥Loft's forehead meets Rose's. Nothing happens. Everything happens. A poppied meadow yawns open. Butterflies made of old letters circle slow, like tigers in the jungle. A straw man stands with a voice like a lullaby and says: The bees are just bees. The honey is just memory. Pick the thimble, not the sword. Rose bends. The thimble slips onto her finger—cool, small, alive. The meadow folds into itself, pages of a picture book closing. The roof is still wet. The bees are gone. The katana is gone. Only the thimble glints in the moonlight. Loft opens her eyes. Rose opens hers. They breathe together once— the same breath— and the night is gentle again.🪽 by @writters_blok

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85❤️‍🔥The Breaking. Loft's forehead meets Rose's – two moons touching. The buzzing stops. Not with violence. With recognition. The yellow peels like old paint. The bees hang, suspended, wings gone still – waiting for the next line of poetry to finish itself. The katana droops, turns silver, turns nothing, turns into a single drop of sweat on Rose's upper lip. It drops. The dream – the forever hallway, the forever kills, the forever guilt – it does not scream. It sighs. And is gone.🪽 by @writters_blok

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💛In the first circle the honey drips gold and slow and venomous. The bees come. They land on the back of her neck. The sting. The dream drops her like a stone. She is in a train. A woman sits. Yellow scarf, yellow gloves. Katana in Rose's lap. She stands. Draws. Cuts. The woman stays sitting, mouth open. Head rolls on the seat, scarf falls. The train keeps moving. Bees swarm out the neck stump. Sting. Glitch. She is in a kitchen. A man chopping onions. Yellow light from the window. Rose behind him. Katana. He turns too late. One stroke. Onions and blood mix. He falls into the pot. Steam rises. Bees from the steam. Sting. Glitch. She is on a rooftop. Night. A girl in yellow dress, waiting. Katana out. Girl doesn't run. Girl says I knew you'd come. Rose cuts. Girl splits in half like silk. Both halves fall. Bees from the ribs. Sting. Glitch. Faster. A soldier. A teacher. A mother. A baby. Katana katana katana katana. Head head head head. Bees bees bees bees. Sting sting sting— Then. Nothing. No honey. No yellow. No blood. No bees. Just Rose standing in white. Sword hanging limp. No sound. No walls. No floor. Just white. And in the white, one word. Again.🪽 by @writters_blok

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85🖤🪽The first level isn't fire. It's fog. White, wet, thick as wool. The air tastes like the hour before dawn—sweet and empty and full of teeth. There is no heat, but your skin still burns, as if every follicle is remembering a scream. They walk. Loft is ahead, wings pulled in like a cloak. Father behind, coat open, heart open, mouth shut. No wind. Yet your coat moves. And under the feet, marble. Cracked. Each crack is a mouth. Each mouth whispers a question. Are you sure? Was it worth it? Is your daughter safe? The questions don't echo. They crawl inside the ear and lie down. Loft stops. She listens. Her ears have always been better than her wings. — It's just the beginning, —she says— — It always sounds like home. — Father looks down. Between two cracks, a single dandelion grows. He kneels. Pulls it. Tucks it behind Rose's ear. The fog smiles. It knows it has time. All of it... ❤️‍🔥

The fog parts for a second. Long enough to see a reflection. Not Father's. Not Rose's. A third person. A child, back turned, holding a red balloon. The balloon says, Almost there. Father blinks. Gone. Loft breathes. — The first lie, — she says. — They let you see what you miss the most, so you stop walking. — Rose touches the dandelion. — We're walking anyway. — And the marble under them starts to hum.🖤🪽 by @writters_blok

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84❤️‍🔥In the hallway that runs like time itself, Rose waits. She is not a girl now— she is the sound water makes when it remembers. Listen, Valkyrie. Listen through your feathers, through your iron. The world was once a lake and we swam in it like mouths. A man with me, his fingers salt, his heart a drum that would not drown. I held the echo of his stroke between my teeth— steady, slow, like blood remembering how to beat. You were there once. Before wings. Before war. You were the soft thing that flew off a boy's shoulder and became thunder. Come. Let iron drop into river. Let river drink the iron, forget the shape. Your spear is tired. Your eyes are red with old sky. I am not asking you to save me. I am asking you to remember me. Remember when protection was not a command— it was a song. Fold your wings. Walk. Walk with me into the ash. God is away on hiatus. The throne is empty. Let us sit in it. Let us sit and drink tea made of tomorrow. Let us be the quiet after the last paddle and the quiet before the first heartbeat.🪽

#novel
#midjourney
#heartbeat
#rose
#zerotwo by @writters_blok

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