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Literature
kansha
感謝
there will be days when the sound of harbour lights are forgotten
murmur and heat rumbling
we are disturbed, swallowed
holes gouged and swollen, empty ache, never healing
tearless, to steal away air from voice
such pain it is to know each blade, each feather, storm and fire
drowning, burning, bleeding cherry blossom memories and warm-chest moments
we have swallowed hurt and drunk sorrow
beyond, above, together, within a breadth of a universe
we little river stones, ever-weathered by each current
remember every visible silence,
warm arms like tethers,
infinitum, within an hourglass
as above with such reverence we hold,
in a blossom, so we give to ourselves
press plush-lipped kisses to the sky,
cold-capped peaks and golden forests pressed to our tongues
hold close our heartsongs
singing of firebirds and burning pain, death and awakening stars
we are here
here,
linking hope, clutching faithful to our hearts
all that we hold dear, in soft whispers
with lives like sm
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Literature
(an attestation)
we are restless, ever-moving, bearing our weights,
carrying metal pressing hard and cold to our thighs and pale-dark bags under our eyes
growing our bones and learning our balance,
learning as our tendons hum and our flesh yawns, awakening in early morning and fluorescent lights
here we sing our song, a cacophonous cycle of life,
sharp sizzling and pops, the scent of browning onions and cooking carrots rises
mingles with raucous laughter, bright,
a symphony of music humming from tiny speakers in our phones, tinny and soft
long nights, quiet nights, bright screens, cuddled up on couches in cold rooms
we lie here with open eyes in silence, awaiting sleep like waking hours,
warm bodies shivering in thick sleeping bags,
smiling at snorts and snores, a lull
remember this;
our bacon-weaves and starving hippopotamuses and sardines
dancing to bastille, amidst hundreds of little points of light hovering, like stars
tracing our heated palms and tender skin with frozen fingers
we hold this to our
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Literature
a vignette
You will learn you are skinned in your bones and raw in your heart, and the words that spill from your throat are bitter ash and dust. To speak is to burn your tongue.
You will learn that your thoughts are blades, and you will bleed on their edges, even when they break, like shards of glass. You will think that they are beautiful, pale blue tinged with scarlet, like jewels, like flowers.
You will learn to disguise this behind fluttering curtains and chilled silk. There shall be no greater desire of yours than to pick apart your own skin with knobby-knuckled twigs and build it up from clay. They will not care.
You will learn to rely on instability. These figures, these images pass before your gaze like sparks, colours burning bright-hot against your eyes. They are temporary, but you are out of options.
You will learn that you cannot depend on sandstone when you are shale, and the mockery of solidness that you are is scorned for the size of your grains. You are too close yet not enough.
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Literature
the edge of the world
Even in late August, San Francisco is a chilly place, its nights filled with slow, damp winds that rise from the bay and slog through the streets. Here, the homes are sandwiched together, row-houses with bay windows cling to steep streets and huddle close, as if determined to keep warm in the dingy yellow streetlights. Close to the bay, the distant rush of waves against the piers bring a heavy echo, rustling the leaves of the trees thinly scattered across blocks that ripple like the foothills of mountains.
Though some buildings are smooth, shining, polished mirrors, gleaming silver and black, most are aging brick in burgundy or tan hues. Neon shades from broken signs flicker on the cracked surface of the pavement. The old glow of the city falters where it touches the inky black of the night sky, illuminating the thin wisps of smoke and cloud straying from the underbelly of thicker clouds where the light won't touch.
The cold sinks through flesh, through bone, into blood that reaches th
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roses in the streets by QuillDancer
Mature content
roses in the streets :iconquilldancer:QuillDancer 0 0
Mature content
Thoughts On Being A Member of the Model Minority :iconquilldancer:QuillDancer 0 1
Literature
fireplace from the window
it wasn’t until grade seven
that he discovered what the words
“pity friend”
meant
“to be a friend
with another
out of
pity”
 
and hearing the words sent
roiling, sickening black pitch
to coat his insides
to choke up his lungs
bury his breath
 
because he knew
he knew
what it was
to be the one to have to ask
to see the too-bright smiles
forced
as if tightened and frozen
with wrenches and bolts
 
knew what it meant
to be a charity
to be seen as so
weak
that only they had the
privilege
of standing beside him
and keeping him on his feet
 
what it meant
to wonder how he could possibly
look his friends in the eye
when it would be akin to
the way his parents had looked at him
when they’d looked through his room
and seen the razors
traced ugly scars that carved their way into valleys
on his skin
 
but when this lion looks in the mirror he sees his mane
cannot comprehend
why
he is seen as a mangy kitten
dying
on the side of the road
a
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Literature
hide and seek
when i was little,
i used to scour my house for places to hide:
under the armchair,
between the legs of the dining room table
under a blanket,
the top shelf of the linen closet
--someplace i could spend hours in, gone without notice, and return
i never could figure out how to escape the notice of my parents, and my sister somehow always knew where i would hide before i’d disappear,
and i’d come out pouting, bewailing the fact that someone would always find me.
 
i'd always feared the undeniable sensation of someone knowing you well enough; i couldn't shake the image of a self-proclaimed knight galloping on a white horse towards any pedestal you kept your heart on, plunging a sword straight through it, and
leaving it bleeding on the floor.
it would happen, i was sure of it.
i hated how it felt standing in the middle of the room with all gazes locked on you, shuddered at the fickle, simple sensation of getting left behind, and the
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strength by QuillDancer strength :iconquilldancer:QuillDancer 0 0
Literature
people really do have it worse
there are minuscule flecks of dirt on the ground that they nudge with their toe,
old fluorescent lights mingling with the pale grey that reaches the classroom through the cafeteria
they sit in the front row, shoulders hunched in and face lowered to stare just past an old wooden desk
with penciled in scars
they never did learn how to last like that
leave an impression that would spell out a single forever
shocking and bright like lightning, leaving deafening imprints on your eyes while thunder boils in your bones
 
they can’t decide if they want to leave memories like that, blinding and unforgiving
the adrenaline and the impact, the kind of hurt they could bring
create dark clouds as thick as the ones that seep through their bones, roiling and endless
they’ve heard their teacher say that depression is ugly, selfish and ignorant
and heard the soft, murmured assents of the people who surround them
it’s moments like these where they want nothing more than to burn eve
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Literature
a letter to the world
Dear Everyone,
An “I’m sorry” means nothing when “that you’re upset” is tacked on.
Dear Everyone,
If it’s important to dress formally to work,
Me wearing a kimono to work should not be “not work appropriate”.
Dear Everyone,
Dress codes make sense, right?
Which is why a twelve-year-old girl in a low-cut tank top and short shorts
Should make a forty-year-old married man uncomfortable.
Dear Everyone,
He didn’t want to hear you spit the word fag in his face like it was an insult
She doesn’t want to hear you call your friend “cunt”, she wants to know
Why you seem to think a vagina means weakness
And tries to think of some way to show them all how strong she is.
Dear Everyone,
Don’t you dare try to use “it was just a joke”.
If you stepped on someone’s toe by accident and broke it, an “I didn’t mean to” doesn’t mean it’s healed.
Dear Everyone,
Yes, he’s hur
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Mature content
my parent's recipe for a perfect child :iconquilldancer:QuillDancer 3 2
decode by QuillDancer decode :iconquilldancer:QuillDancer 1 1
Literature
lego blocks or skeleton candies
it's fourth period health class and they sit at the front of the room
they're sixteen years old
bedecked in a worn pair of jeans and that same blue jacket they wear everyday
they never told anyone why she wore it all the time
never said that it was because it made him feel a little more stable
a little less blindsided
this is his safety blanket, her lifeboat, helps keep them afloat
never said the reason why she cut her hair short was to feel more herself, to prove not to himself that he was real,
but as a reminder to everyone else that they were
that she snuck that red shirt from the men's section so she got them for herself so he could feel beautiful and felt giddy because it felt like he was finally buying his own clothes,
that he wears those skirts and dresses when he feels himself clearly in defiance of what people think a "he" should wear
that she wants those cargo shorts, wants those binders, wants to work out in a gym and wear that tuxedo with the pale pink tie to prom
but he's
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trash and treasure by QuillDancer trash and treasure :iconquilldancer:QuillDancer 0 3 perception by QuillDancer perception :iconquilldancer:QuillDancer 0 0

Journal History

Pride

LGBTQ+ AND PROUD

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QuillDancer
Sylph Dancer
United States
Although I do post the occasional scrap of digital art, my main focus is writing stories, poetry, and things that are better spoken aloud than read inside your head. If you'd like me to write something based on art, PM me and I'll see what I can do.

Comments


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:iconflowerplowedup:
flowerplowedup Featured By Owner Mar 21, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
thanks for faving :)
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:iconquilldancer:
QuillDancer Featured By Owner Mar 21, 2017
No prob!
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:iconxfuture-boundx:
xfuture-boundx Featured By Owner Feb 13, 2017   Writer
Hi, thanks for the fave on my poem, I really appreciate it! <3 and I hope you have a wonderful week c':
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:iconquilldancer:
QuillDancer Featured By Owner Feb 13, 2017
No problem! And thanks, you too!
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:iconxfuture-boundx:
xfuture-boundx Featured By Owner Feb 14, 2017   Writer
thanks!!
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:icondomaex:
Domaex Featured By Owner Dec 23, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you for the favourite!
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:iconquilldancer:
QuillDancer Featured By Owner Dec 26, 2016
No prob! :)
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:iconaurora66:
Aurora66 Featured By Owner Sep 17, 2016   Writer
thank you for the fave!
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:iconquilldancer:
QuillDancer Featured By Owner Sep 17, 2016
No problem, Taiwan Love Song was really cool!
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:iconflowerplowedup:
flowerplowedup Featured By Owner Jul 19, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
thanks for watching :)
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