dancingquill
Why do writers write? Because therapy is expensive and world domination isn’t socially acceptable.
dancingquill
Why do writers write? Because therapy is expensive and world domination isn’t socially acceptable.
Why do writers write? Because therapy is expensive and world domination isn’t socially acceptable.
Why do writers write? Because therapy is expensive and world domination isn’t socially acceptable.
Is it the ash of burned thoughts pressed into ink, or the weightless flight of meaning on the edge of a whisper?
Some call it rhythm, the measured beat of syllables marching in time, but what of the silence between heartbeats? The breath caught in the throat, the pause before the fall?
Others say it is truth— raw, unflinching, dragged from the depths of soul and sin. But truth is a slippery thing, a shadow that shifts in the light of who we are, who we wish we were.
Perhaps poetry is grief, the kind that hums low in the chest, or joy, sharp and fleeting, like a shard of glass held too tightly. Perhaps it is love, aching and unspoken, or the scream that never leaves the locked box of our ribs.
A poet is only as good as the worlds they dare to see, as the words they dare to break open and bleed. For poetry is not just written; it is lived, a shapeless thing, both cage and key.
The ice stretches out, a mirror of frost, cold and gleaming, infinite. It hums beneath me, a frozen pulse, alive with whispers of winter’s breath.
Blades kiss the surface, sharp and sure, etching patterns that disappear as quickly as they’re made. Each glide is a risk, a defiance of gravity, a fleeting moment of flight.
The air bites my cheeks, crisp and electric, as I carve through the stillness, a streak of motion against the vast white quiet. Every turn bends time, spinning seconds into eternity.
I am both fragile and fierce, a contradiction on edges of steel. Each stumble reminds me of the fragility of grace, of the beauty in falling and rising again.
The ice knows my story. It remembers every step, every slip, every triumphant leap. Its surface holds no grudges, only the fleeting impressions of my imperfect dance.
Under the vast sky, I am weightless, free. The world beyond the rink fades, its noise swallowed by the soft echo of skates. Here, I am everything and nothing— a fleeting figure writing poetry on frozen glass.
Your eyes fall downward, fixating onto your hands. They're fidgety, awfully fidgety. You watch as you pick at the skin surrounding your nailbed. You can't seem to stop yourself, it's frustrating. With a hum, you force yourself to avert your gaze from your fingers and to look up at the people surrounding you.
Huh?
Immediately, you notice zippers crawling up and down every person's form. They look rushed, sewn onto the people's skin. And for a moment, you can't help but wonder what is beneath.
Your thoughts are disrupted, disputed and thrown into the air before you can even process them. Your eyes squeeze shut just before you hit the ground before you. You feel water soak through the back of your shirt, freezing cold against your warm skin.
A hand brushes against your shoulder, and you turn your head to see a woman with her arm outstretched toward you. You wonder what she wants, but then remember that you're on the ground, and you grab her hand firmly to pull yourself up.
Looking up to thank the woman, you see it. She doesn't have a mouth, and it seems to have been replaced with yet another zipper. You grimace, closing your eyes and opening them. Closing, opening, closing, opening. Nothing seems to work. You feel like you're going insane, and maybe you are.
Quickly, your hands move upward and grab the woman by the hair. A free hand of yours moves over to her neck, where a zipper is located. You inhale sharply, closing your eyes a mere second before pulling it down.
You shouldn't have.
Blood and.. something else you can't place, spills out from her neck. It's gross, it's sticky, and you want to run away. You can't move, though. What the fuck? It falls onto the floor along with her now almost limp body, but you can still see her, see her scared and betrayed look, as if those zippers are.. normal. They aren't. Right?
You don't realize it yet.
You gag on nothing, before hunching over and throwing up right beside her body. No. This all just has to be a dream. It can't actually be happening, right? You didn't just.. murder somebody. If it can even be called somebody.
You run a hand through your hair, and that's when you realize.
You have one too.