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About Deviant Member sharonFemale/United States Recent Activity
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Oleander blossoms fall on our city,
painting it silvery pink and dreamy.
But you're awake, sketching fiercely,
the remnants of a bad phone call
to your parents etched out in
violent strokes of teal and charcoal.

Pencil shavings on the floor,
paper cuts; girl, you're brutal
with your own feelings, aren't you?
And I feel sorry for the birds that
have to listen to your crying
in the early mornings.
They try their hardest to make you
smile, but after awhile,
they leave; flying off
while feeling unworthy,
like nothing they do will
ever be good enough
to send you to Wonderland.

Oh Hadley, take a breath..
You're as dry as a bone
in a forest of tulips and wild lavender.
You're a runaway from Canada;
you made it across the border,
leaped over the wildfire-tainted grass
plains and now you're here on my doorstep.
Oh how can I turn you away, ma cherie?
I only wish it were easier
to be your partner in crime;
your long-lost lover, twin
shadow, scarlet paramour.

And sometimes I can't tell
the difference between our
bright mirror reflections.
Girl, you're so stunning in your heat;
your last season rage,
Lebanese bracelets wrapped tightly
around your wrists.
"To write love on her arms",
you never were one of those kids, girl.
You used to say, "If I'm going
to do it someday, it's all or nothing;
not in pieces, chunks of fairy
skin, dirtying up the bathroom tiles.
Suicide lilies in my veins," you claimed.
"Blossom thick and pretty.
Oh I'm not a cutter, I swear.."

That always used to scare me,
hearing you say thpse things.
But now I get it..
I understand all the dark alleys
of your Canterbury mind.
With a princess brain,
you were raised in the spoils of
east Toronto,
but had a nobility all your own,
despite never setting foot
inside a palace on a hill,
surrounded by
security; wrought iron
angel gates.
You knew you were meant
for better things than
your dad's collection
of beer cans,
his obsession with wrestling;
getting into fights with
other neighborhood men
just for the hell of it.

And you taught yourself
how to fight dirty,
putting on lipstick
in the faded mirror
in your corner bedroom;
a cut space, no bigger
than someone's sick closet
filled with secrets
and suburban lies.

Oh and you helped me through
the confusion of
our senior year
when we met in the cell block
hallways of Clone High.
Raised in foster homes,
I was so used to being
pushed aside in favor of
a more interesting, beautiful child.
But for some reason,
I was more than good enough
in the depths of your
magic marble eyes.
Sin-colored, deep;
they held me prisoner
every night at around 8:45
when we would sneak out of
our cracked windows
and meet under the 7 Eleven
sign on West Keoning Avenue.

Dressed in army shades,
a cropped jacket, your
shiny midriff exposed;
girl, you're the sexiest
fallen angel I've ever come across
in my quest for acceptance
in a Brooklyn atmosphere.
Crumbling down, the city
of my youth was meant for headlines,
crime and money heists,
shootings on every street corner;
ringing out like blasts
in the night, a supernova bursting
in a million acidic sparks.

But we were meant to be remembered..
Well, at least you were, and
envy was never in my blood before
but since I've met you, darling,
this toxic feeling has infected
my once pure seashell veins.
You are my Aphrodite, even
though you claim to be born
under the planet Mars;
the deity of war, not
music and undeniable beauty.
Girl, you're so hard on yourself,
claiming a tragic horoscope
in your jasmine veins.
But still, you're my warrior princess;
your smart blood pink and dangerous.

And maybe I'm so attached
because you protected me
through all the confusion
of growing up an orphan,
drifting from trailer park
to trailer park; foster
homes lined up along
the chilling Atlantic coast.
But girl, I'm here to stay..
Make me your Aphrodite;
your one and only charm,
something to give you luck
when you feel like giving up,
alone and scarred by
past disappointments.
Harsh curse words are
stamped across your
momentous heart, girl.

But like clockwork,
your brain calculates everything
carefully, your next move;
escape plan marked like
horse-shoe dots on a map of
sad North America.
Make me your one and only
exception, your own rule
against falling in love;
shattered and
glistening on the floor.

And maybe I'm just naive..
You do what you wish every time, girl.
But here's the thing;
it's too late to take back Sunday
night confessions in your room,
shots of whisky,
tattoos on each others' wrists.
It's far too late to rip out
your memory from my mind
like yanking off that locket;
necklace you gave me,
from around my throat;
say you were nothing
more than a fling,
a night of fun,tinged
with Puritan remorse.

Hadley, if you're going down,
then you're dragging me
to hell with you because
for you, darling; I'd set
the trees on fire, burn
their evergreen souls
just to kill the little
white lies, secrets
they shed every winter.
Disturbing memories
litter the ground
but girl, you're worth it.
Hadley, you're worth
the pain of betrayal,
loss; missing my parents,
not knowing where I came from.

Blood and saltwater
painted our landscapes
when we were just sixteen.
The ancient gold bracelet
I hid in the crinkled
pages of my diary was
a promise, broken.
But Hadley, I'll find
a way to thank you for
saving my skin
all those desperate times
back in high school because
you made sure I was remembered,
when all I wanted was to disappear,
become the mourning phantom
in a dead lover's opera.

So girl, I'll find a way
to thank you for everything..
I don't want to wake up
one afternoon after drinking
sour wine the night before,
bleary thoughts leaking into
the dawn's early amber hours,
I don't want to open my eyes
to find out all this is gone;
the ghost of our kiss,
surreal and clean
like an Alberta summer,
dissipating in the sailor mist.
Hadley
girl/girl inspired by the characters Amanda and Emily from my favorite show, Revenge, and the idea that they could be alter-egos.
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October drowned my memory in
toxins made out of pumpkin seeds;
sunrise casket wood burning
and square pieces of Granny Smith
apples left behind on a park trail.
I was cold and reclusive when you found me,
jabbing at innocent piano keys
with war paint fingers, bleeding out notes
of Chopin and Mozart just to feel something.

Getting drunk on the sandstone streets of
Sedona, faraway from home; I'm a lost cause,
my professors said, would never be good enough
to play with orchestras worldwide.
"But at least, he tries.."
Well, I've been trying my hardest
to leap over the electric fences
that people keep putting up around me,
to cage me in a prison of critics;
$5000 clones, all grim-faced and merciless,
lacking hearts made of
sea brine and calla lilies,
their cold skin permanently chalk-outlined.

Spring breeze; we sit next to each other
at university and listen to lectures
about revolutionary kids in East L.A;
Latin-Americans like us, rising up
against principals and teachers who
forced them to bleed their mistakes in class.
Oh that was before the Rodney King Riots..
My grandma talks about them all the time
and usually I just roll my eyes,
sipping iced tea at the kitchen table
and eating corn fried tamales,
made fresh in the honeycomb morning.
But now I appreciate the stories,
the real-life tales of struggle
on the streets of West Hollywood.
Now I get it, friend; I understand
how frustrated we get when we're young,
forced to obey adults who couldn't
give a damn about us, our plans.
And when we dream; they scoff, make us
feel idiotic for trying.
Oh I wish I could prove myself
in a way that won't
exhaust me in the end; leave me
broken and unable
to enjoy a well-earned victory.

Do you think I'm overconfident?
That's hilarious, but so what?
Boy, you were the one who believed
I could be the best music student around..
I could see it in your smile,
in the way you asked me to sit with you
and your friends during lunch.
It puzzled me because usually
people left me alone, even my father
couldn't be bothered with
his screwed-up prodigy son.

"I don't know where he gets it from,"
I heard him say to my mother once.
Divorced; bitter, he lost her
just like he lost me.
And you know what?
As cruel as this sounds,
I couldn't give a damn
if his business is sinking,
if he's lost his footing on the social ladder
and tumbles down because
he was always bragging;
always making me feel inadequate, left out.
Well, old man, now you
can see that what goes around, comes around.

It's just like that..
Did they expect me to not fight back,
to not win another trophy just to see
my name engraved in gold lettering?
Oh I just wanted to say,
"I made it to Julliard, without you, Dad."
And you know what?
I did, but the pain of his rejection
still falls over me like a bucket of
December ice water over my head..
Will I ever be free of that
heart-wrenching 5th grade memory
in black and white;
a Nick-at-Nite TV set, broken
on the bearskin rug
on our living room floor?

That was horrible, I had to clean it up..
He tore my mother's photograph,
called her a tramp for leaving;
right in front of me,
he called her a bitch.
But you know what?
I think she did the right thing.
He never appreciated her,
to begin with, but I still wish
she would've taken me with her..
Even if we'd had
to survive on the mean California
sun-baked streets,
barrios where women carry heavy
baskets on their heads; piled
high with oranges
to sell by the highway;
even if we'd had to starve
for a few nights before
walking the long journey
to the bus stop,
honey, I swear
I'd still want
to be with my dear Mamá.

But she never thought to come back
and I can't blame her.
Life with the sperm donor who
called himself my father was
like hurricane season;
unpredictable, tumultuous.
I had to leave as soon as possible,
pack up my sheet music and sweaters,
get the hell out while he was still
sober in the early morning hours.

I remember the blue jays seemed to be
egging me on as I ran down the dusty
streets of our neighborhood,
catching the bus at the last minute,
heading for San Pedro.

You were there, waiting for your little sister.
You were reading a magazine
about country rock festivals.
It made me smile crookedly,
and then our eyes met for the first time..
I bet you remember every detail,
but so do I; how your lashes were
sand-colored, your Arizona sky irises,
how you waved enthusiastically
when you saw little Jenny,
whom you hadn't seen since
your parents' custody hearing.
Yeah, we had some things in common,
neither of us understood the meaning of family.

But I was intent on denying
our connection back then,
friend, because I was scared
of getting my hopes up;
of being abandoned again..
But you were patient,
waited after each and every concert
just to say, "Congratulations, man!"
My own dad never did that, you know?
And to this day, I still don't know
why you tried so hard
to break through the Scorpio night
that I'd wrapped around myself like
a second skin; the Great Wall of China.
Boy, you brought me flowers;
the darkest roses I'd ever seen,
maroon almost, like the Virgin
Mary's tears on a tombstone.

I was puzzled when you handed them to me
after I'd played Chopin
for three long hours but
you said, "Because you're like them;
you stand out among thorns, thistles;
you can never be ignored,
even with bruised petals; boy,
you're unforgettable in the rain."
Oh I just had to hug you then,
to feel alive again,
to feel your warmth and know
you were telling the truth.
Friend, I had to bury my face
in your neck, know
that I wasn't just
imagining all this praise;
you really believed in me
as a person, you didn't see me as
a ghost-kid, drifting from pueblo
to pueblo, one Mexican-American
town after another;
unacknowledged by anyone living,
human beings only seeing white.

You were right when you told me,
"Perhaps, boy, you're an Arizona
puzzle that no human can ever solve."
But at the time, this made me angry.
"What makes you so special?"
I demanded, my cheeks flaming with
uncensored emotion.
You were breaking down my barriers
of self-restraint,
of long nights rolling around in
the Phoenix heat,
Athens sheets twisting
around my ankles.
"Maybe I don't scare easily," you teased.
You shrugged your broad shoulders,
made me want to rip your shirt off,
see the body beneath;
all the electric Paris veins,
long ropes of muscle,
your ethnic chest.

My skin was a lot paler,
less exotic and special.
But still, you wanted
to hold me close, roll me over
in your Santa Monica hands.
And now I get it, why
you tried so hard to
make me see; because, boy,
there's no such thing as "normal"..
There's just you and me, darling.
Mr.Piano Man
sort of inspired by this lovely piece:<da:thumb id="487444291">
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If I could change the world,
I'd start with the face in the mirror;
the reddened eyes, tired of
crying for a lost childhood,
and the frostbitten lips;
damaged but still smiling, weakly.
I'd start with the nerve in my body
that feels numb and even invisible
sometimes when all I want to do is
feel again; feel like
nothing else matters
but cherry blossoms in the spring,
but the girl I loved when I was
a fast-talking 10-year old;
agile in my plan for revenge.

Oh darling, it's disturbing;
these memories, the very thought of
finding you in this mess;
the aftermath of chaos,
of car crashes and murder, spelled
out in autumn leaves
on a concrete sidewalk.

But maybe I wouldn't change a thing..
Because of what I did
back in primary school,
you were able to see the sun again;
peeking through the windows of your
collapsing, fake Betty Crocker house.

And even though I ask for forgiveness
every morning at the Shinto shrine,
bowing before spirits carved in marble,
I don't think I'm honestly sorry.

You were my first kiss
in the pencil lead rain.
Nobody can take that away..
You were my inspiration,
the reason I started reading
classic novels set during
the American Civil War.
You were the only pure thing
in my cheaply-tailored world.

And now where do I do?
I comb the streets of
this Starbucks-scented city for you.
Lost; I close my eyes,
waiting for the bus home,
and imagine the prettiest
girl standing before me,
waiting for me to recognize her.

I picture your skin;
a perfect porcelain tint,
glowing in the aging sunlight.
Oh yes, I can see it now, girl;
the sun gets old but
you're stuck in time,
your geisha eyes gleaming like
stolen onyx stones,
your lips rosy; not quite smiling,
yet not quite frowning;
the feelings in that broken smile are
so clear, irreplaceable.

You and I are caught in the crossfire..
If I could make a deal with a dark angel,
a fallen spirit; a time traveler,
I would do anything to gain his trust,
darling; to make the world safe
for us to play hide and seek
again like we did in 1994.

But it's over..
All the cherry blossoms are
dead on the temple floor and
blood runs thicker than water.
I hold you, girl, as tight as
I can, without bruising
your milky white shoulders.
We make love to the sound
of thunder, rolling through
the glassy heavens
like a gypsy's crystal ball
revealing something ominous;
like a record stuck on repeat,
playing classical guitar all night long.

Oh girl, tarnished daisy rain hits the windows
and yet, you sigh my name,
instead of commenting on the chilly weather
so I consider this a small
victory in my chest; the fact that I can
keep you warm, make you
forget the trauma, the pain of 1998.

Oh I finally have you, safe in my arms
after years of worrying;
not knowing where you ended up after
5th grade science and bell rings,
doing drugs, selling yourself in
Shibuya; the fashion district.
I'm glad it's over; you didn't
end up another Gothic Lolita
on a newspaper cover,
an old man's dirty
fantasy in a plaid skirt.

Cupping your face in my hands,
I tell you, "You're the most
beautiful creature I've ever seen
and I know you think you're ugly,
twisted inside after what
that man did but you're not..
Miyuki, you'll never be."
What happened wasn't your fault, sweetheart.
We all get scared, we all run with scissors
from one room to the other, accidentally.

But let's just have one day
where we don't remember
anything disturbing, please.
Let's just lie on the long-stemmed grass,
pretend we're kids again.

Girl, you know I'd kill for you;
drive a blade into the chest of
my own father because
the way I see it, a real parent
wouldn't abuse a child.
So all that man is to me is
a stranger without a face;
a monster, an enemy of Narnia.

But evergreen; your spirit stayed fierce,
cool and glossy, warm within.
And even though most people never saw it,
I witnessed your true emotions,
peeking out from beneath the leaves;
honest fear and a tenderness
that never dies young; caged, forgotten.
I will never part with this,
say goodbye, let this be
the end of our midnight chapter.
Dear you,

I don't get on the L train anymore.
It reminds me of those watermelon
days when we shared what was left
in our lunch-boxes and
talked about the coming spring
and my favorite book;
Gone with the Wind.
It was always in my backpack,
peeking out; its
romantic and strong heroine
visible on the cover.
Oh yes, I wanted to be just
like Scarlet O'Hara
but our only similarity was
our dark hair.
I was trying too hard to
care about other people,
while she did it so naturally.

These days, I'm less of a southern belle,
more like a city urchin;
my hair matted with rain,
smelling of daisies and failed summer plans.

Remember that lily, the one that
only grew in backwater ditches?
I think you thought it was me;
a beauty found in an unremarkable place,
a miracle sprouting in devastation and sin.

But that's not who I am, sweetie.
I'm damaged, cruel and evil..
There are secret diary entries
inside of me that I hope
you'll never read, page through,
glance; wide-eyed at.
I wish I could always
be your heroine, someone who
rarely makes mistakes in judgment.
But alas, I'm me and
this is our train station story.

Everything is fragile, misunderstood.
We were just kids when
the war came to our hometown
but not the kind people remember.
There were no bombs
dropping down from the sky,
soldiers patrolling
around in dark green
with guns in their arms.
No, this was a different kind of war,
a war we fought against the people
who were supposed to
love us;,our parents.
They were the enemy and you and
I were victims of circumstance.

A fucked-up reality,
an old man took pictures of me.
He came by every day
with little pink boxes
from the corner bakery,
to tempt me with,
to convince me he was okay.
But you knew the truth,
you were the only one
who fought in my defense.

With a pair of scissors,
you made sure he never hurt me again.
And I guess I'll always owe you that,
my gratitude in strips
of satin ribbons, schoolgirl pride;
tattered and bent.

I was safe only because you had
the courage to say,
"Stop! Enough!"
Without you there,
I would've been another name
in a worn police record book;
meaningless and forgotten,
mug-shots scribbled over
with marker and
thrown in the waste-basket.

No, I'll be remembered now
as the girl who got away.
You were my escape,
my angel with a shotgun, boy.
Can I ever say thanks?
"We'll never see each other again.."
That was the promise we made ten years ago.
Is it still relevant?
After everything's gone;
the threats on the phone,
the bloodstains on our sneakers
and sweaty cash
left behind on dinner tables..
After everything that we went through,
does it still matter?

I want to find you because
you were my sun,
breaking through the clouds
on those orange blossom days;
wasted spring.
I can never get back what was taken,
but I can hold onto you, boy.
That is my last wish..

Hear the train, coming down
from the mountain village;
are you on it?

Sincerely,
Me
midnight train
based off the sad Japanese novel Byakuyako and the song Kristy, Are You Doing Okay? by The Offspring.
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Anseong; a street bathed in Cancerian moonshine,
lanterns reflecting rain and slow footsteps on
an 18th Century pavement, it's all a haze to me.
I wander around after midnight, friend,
thinking about the lover I left behind
on the steps of a temple;
wondering when or if I'd ever return
and take back the bright
red string I'd tied around his wrist;
the one with a gold coin at the center,
a gift from a real Joseon prince.

My grandmother gave it to me
when I was five and scared of the dark.
I don't think she meant for me
to give it to another boy, but
a girl; maybe someday a bride,
dressed in traditional rose
pink, sequins in her hair.
But that's not how my heart,
my mind worked, honey.
From early on, I knew
I was destined to be
one in a million serendipity stars
sparkling, alone and
queer in the magpie-tainted heavens.

But she loved me anyway; my grandmother,
and it was just pure dumb luck that
my parents left me with her
on rainy, solitary Mondays
because she taught me to read and
I would translate for her
at the market when her sight and
hearing started to fade,
when she couldn't tell
what season it was or
how much lychees were on sale.
And coincidentally,
I met you there, at the street fair
on one of those mysterious days.

You gave me half of your chrysanthemum cake,
smiled over your shoulder at me
as your aunt led you away.
She told you not to talk to "lowly kids".
But I remember your face;
eyes golden brown like cashmere, exotic
yet real, your dimples
showing like a toddlers; uncensored and
your voice nonjudgmental.
You were one in a million,
too, I was sure of it.

But for many reasons, we were kept apart.
When we're young, we don't understand
why we're not allowed to play together;
shooting arrows through the blackbird forest,
running after seagulls at the nearest beach,
and telling ghost stories in front of
a cozy kitchen fire with the smell of
cinnamon in the air.
You don't understand why it matters that
one of us is rich and the other isn't
because we both wanted
to be small town heroes.

We wanted to be extraordinary;
movie stars, geniuses,
like so many kids stuck
in mountainside villages.
But time drags us along
and slowly, we start to change..
We move to the city,
we move out of simplicity and
into a confusing wonderland of
twinkling buildings, fast cars
and people in makeup;
pretty eyes, gleaming smiles,
stardust, drinking moonshine
from champagne glasses;
it's all new to us,
but boy, you're better
at adjusting than I am.

I fear that I'll forever
be a country bumpkin inside;
hazel-eyed, easily surprised.
You saved me from getting
hit by a bus twice.
You held me tight
in the midday heat,
rubbed my shoulders like
you knew I needed comfort,
despite my embarrassment.
And worst of all, you smiled
like you knew it'd happen again;
every time the lights switched
colors too fast for
my body to react, place me
out of danger's path.

Oh that's why I don't get it..
If you know me so well,
why are you insisting on this facade?
You should know that now way in hell
would I ever be okay with this lie..
I can never accept a future where
I lose you to someone else,
boy; someone who barely knows you
or even cares to, really.

And you say I'm being cruel.
Oh, like you're not?
You say it's just an arrangement,
this marriage; set up by
your parents when you were nine.
It's ridiculous!
It's as if you were living in
ancient times,
boy; incapable
of choosing for yourself
who to love.
She won't understand you,
I'm sure, darling.
She'll just move into your house
and bear your child,
without even knowing your favorite color.
I do, though..
It's cornflower blue like a cloudless
spring sky,
like the lake we used to swim in;
together, naked, a dangerous secret
floating
like a water lily, never sinking
in the incense smoke afternoon.

Am I not enough?
Because I can't wait forever..
I'm not a damn clock, boy;
an Alice in Wonderland ordeal!
It isn't fair to either of us,
being jerked around like
rag dolls; being washed downstream.
During a summer storm,
our bodies become invisible.
In a flood, we sink
with melancholy mermaids,
our hearts getting stuck
in coral reefs; jagged
rocks poking through
our milky pink flesh,
the blood of roses;
ripped, thrown away
like insignificant love letters.

Is this how it's going to be;
choose a girl or me,
your best friend;
a boy, no less.
It still isn't easy..

But I remember last Sunday night
after the tea ceremony
at your parents' house,
you came knocking on my door.
I had just stepped out of the shower,
the scent of pine trees
clinging to my skin,
and you pushed me up against a wall,
kissed me hard against the city skyline
reflected through the snowflake glass
surrounding my loft.

I dropped in a chair,
leaned back and thought to myself,
"I could tumble over the edge
of this brimstone balcony and
fall to my untimely death.
It still wouldn't matter.."
Darling, it still wouldn't
change a thing, I'll bet.

You wrapped your strong
arms around me, held me
like we were kids again;
innocent, daring, not
afraid of same-sex love.
Unfortunately, we're not naive,
can't pretend to be just
to save ourselves now from
the pain of departure.
A reason for staying dies
like cigarette smoke in
the night air and I told you,
"No, I can't do this anymore.."

My throat hurt when you pulled away.
Boy, all those years
gone down the drain;
all those summers, Ferris wheels,
green tea ice cream
and hugs on the bridge, the place
where we would secretly meet..
We let it all die
to save whatever's left of
our friendship,
boy, on Deoksugung Path.
Deoksugung Path
boy-boy love, obviously ;) I was inspired after reading this: seoulistic.com/korean-culture/…
there's a Korean legend/superstition that couple who walk on the Deoksugung palace path will break up. Magpies are also considered unlucky in Korean culture so I mentioned them, as well :P
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autumn-spirit
sharon
United States
Current Residence: Texas
Favourite genre of music: rock
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:iconblackbowfin:
BlackBowfin Featured By Owner 1 day ago  Hobbyist Writer
Hey there.  Kind thanks for faving Call it Fall.  It's very much appreciated.  :highfive:
Reply
:iconautumn-spirit:
autumn-spirit Featured By Owner 1 day ago
no problem
Reply
:iconsacchim:
Sacchim Featured By Owner Oct 10, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Ahhh thank you so much for the watch! ;u;

I appreciate it! <3
Reply
:iconautumn-spirit:
autumn-spirit Featured By Owner Oct 10, 2014
no problem :)
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:icongothicnarcissus:
GothicNarcissus Featured By Owner Oct 9, 2014  Hobbyist Photographer
Thank you very much for the :+fav:! :rose:
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:iconautumn-spirit:
autumn-spirit Featured By Owner Oct 9, 2014
you're welcome
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:icond-e-l-e-t-e-d:
d-e-l-e-t-e-d Featured By Owner Oct 7, 2014  New member Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the fave, love! :huggle:
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:iconautumn-spirit:
autumn-spirit Featured By Owner Oct 8, 2014
no problem, honey :D
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:icond-e-l-e-t-e-d:
d-e-l-e-t-e-d Featured By Owner Oct 12, 2014  New member Hobbyist Writer
:la:
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:iconautumn-spirit:
autumn-spirit Featured By Owner Oct 12, 2014
La la la la 
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