Eira Quinn
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eirawritesfire.bsky.social
Eira Quinn
@eirawritesfire.bsky.social
26 followers 21 following 29 posts
Poet | Author 🖤
Let There Be Thought - OUT NOW!
https://books2read.com/u/bQw5jd

www.eiraquinn.com
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eirawritesfire.bsky.social
October 24, 2025 at 2:44 PM
eirawritesfire.bsky.social
The world does not wound politely. It doesn’t knock first. It arrives like glass in your teeth, like sirens under your skin, like the sound of something breaking that used to be you. Every sunrise looks like an apology for what the night forgot to fix. Yet you open your chest like a window in a thunderstorm. You keep letting the world in. What an impossible thing, to bleed and bless in the same breath. To choose mercy when the sharpest parts of you want a weapon. It’s choosing not to become what broke you. You are the response to every brutal thing that hoped you’d go quiet. And if that’s not sacred, what is? ♥ Eira Quinn @eirawritesfire
October 1, 2025 at 12:46 PM
eirawritesfire.bsky.social
Flat Earth Thinking, by Eira Quinn We once thought the earth was flat. Whole civilizations swore it. Priests carved it into scripture, sailors mapped its edges, children learned it in schoolrooms. But the earth still spun, spherical and unbothered by human certainty. Truth doesn’t bend because belief is loud. Majority is not proof. Numbers never made a lie less false. Now you say, ‘There have only been two genders,’ as if repeating it enough times will make chromosomes stop dancing, bodies stop diverging, biology stop writing exceptions into every page of the textbook you ignore. Nature has never fit neatly into your tidy boxes. It grows wild, crooked, infinite in variation. It laughs at your lines in the sand. So call it radical if you want. Call it heresy. Call it whatever helps you sleep. But remember you stand in the same place as those who swore the earth was flat, mocking the horizon, while the rest of us are already sailing around the world.
September 27, 2025 at 3:27 PM
eirawritesfire.bsky.social
Another Poem, by Eira Quinn I sit down to write one. Just one. But the world keeps shoving subjects into my hands. Blood-soaked headlines, laws like shackles, names turned into hashtags, graves dug faster than gardens. Which story do I tell? The woman denied care, the child denied safety, the body denied its own name? Each demands ink, each demands breath, and my pages multiply like scars. It’s overwhelming. Like trying to drink the ocean with a paper cup. Every time I choose a line, a thousand more break open, demanding to be remembered. So I keep writing. Not because one poem will fix it, but because silence is a luxury I can’t afford. Because if I stop, the weight might crush me. Because poems may not save the world, but they remind me I am still fighting it.
September 26, 2025 at 11:04 AM
eirawritesfire.bsky.social
Beatitudes for the Broken, by Eira Quinn Blessed are the tired. The ones who carry too much grief in too small a body. Blessed are the ones who left the church before it could kill them. Who were called sinners for surviving. Who were told God is love and learned too late that it came with conditions. Blessed are the girls who suffered in silence. Who were taught to cover their bodies and uncover their souls for men who said God would want it. Blessed are the queer kids in youth group closets. The ones who stayed quiet through sermons that made their existence a punchline. Blessed are the ones who loved truly anyway. Blessed are the doubters. The heretics. The ones who asked too many questions and were given shame instead of answers. Blessed are the angry. The feminists. The ones who shout in state houses and bleed in clinic parking lots because someone told them it was God’s will. Blessed are the ones who choose life— their life— and stayed alive without permission. Blessed are the hands that tremble but still reach for someone else. Blessed are the feet that run when nowhere's safe to land. Blessed are the ones who were never called holy but became it anyway.
August 16, 2025 at 12:42 AM
eirawritesfire.bsky.social
We’re not free because they grew kinder. We’re free because you didn’t quit.
August 1, 2025 at 2:14 PM
eirawritesfire.bsky.social
Being afraid of consequences is not the same as being good.
We should stop pretending it is.
#lettherebethought #poetrythatquestions #religiousdeconstruction
"If your only reason not to harm is a warning carved in stone, you were never good. You were afraid. There's a difference. It was never holiness. It was fear, polished for the pulpit, pressed into Sunday best." -Eira Quinn
July 27, 2025 at 12:41 AM
eirawritesfire.bsky.social
This one means a lot to me. It’s for the ones who kept loving, even when they weren’t safe to be seen. Happy Pride 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

#poetry #queerpoetry #happypride
June 8, 2025 at 6:03 PM
eirawritesfire.bsky.social
Made some paper, typed a poem, took it outside. Now I’m happy.🌿

#LetThereBeThought #PoetryThatQuestions #HandmadePaper #ReligiousDeconstruction #IndiePoet
Let There Be Thought by Eira Quinn Tear down their thrones. Set fire to the books that taught you to kneel. Unlearn every prayer whispered in fear, every law carved to break you. Let there be thought— wild, defiant, burning clean through the lies. Let it rise where dogma falls. Let it howl where silence reigned. No more kings of heaven. No more chains in the name of light. Only this: your mind, unclaimed, alive.
June 6, 2025 at 12:55 AM
eirawritesfire.bsky.social
To all the women who’ve learned to navigate the world with caution, but never lost their softness or strength—this one’s for you. 💛

#WomenEmpowerment #SurvivalAndStrength #FeministPoetry #BreakingTheSilence #HealingThroughWords #InclusiveFeminism #ReclaimingSafety #LoveAndSurvival #FeminismForAll
Hesitation by Eira Quinn She doesn’t hate men. She has loved them— their softness, their steadiness, the quiet ways they showed up without needing applause. But she’s also had to survive them. She’s walked home with her heart in her throat, keys clenched like weapons. She’s stayed polite in elevators, in Ubers, at work— because safety sometimes looks like smiling. She’s had to say “I have a boyfriend” when “no” wasn’t enough. She’s had to laugh at jokes that made her skin crawl because the man telling them didn’t like being corrected. She doesn’t hate men. But she hesitates. She studies the room. She wonders if safety is earned or borrowed— and what it will cost her this time. Because love isn’t always safety. And too many of them were boys who never learned how to sit with fear without making someone else carry it. So no— She doesn’t hate men. But she does live in a world shaped by what they were allowed to do. And she’s still trying to unlearn what she had to become just to survive them.
May 9, 2025 at 2:44 PM
eirawritesfire.bsky.social
While this piece isn’t part of my upcoming collection, it felt too urgent not to share. When extremists ban books, it’s not about protection. It’s about control.

They’ve done this before. We remember. We resist.

#TransRightsAreHumanRights #PoetryAsResistance #BanFascistsNotBooks
The First to Burn They came for the words first— not the weapons, not the fists, but the books. Truths too fluid. Too free. Too unwilling to bow to binary. In 1933, they burned the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft. Pages curled. Names blistered. Magnus Hirschfeld’s work— on gender, on becoming— turned to smoke. They called it cleansing, but it was erasure. To control. To silence. And now they come again— with laws, with bans, with the lie that protecting children requires erasing truth. History remembers. The ash. The stripped shelves. The futures never lived because knowledge was denied. And still— trans people write it again. On walls. On skin. In songs and whispers. They carry truth through a world that tried to reduce them to ash. They are the architects now— not of survival, but direction. Building in every language they were once denied. Not what fire spared, but what rose beyond it.
May 7, 2025 at 3:24 PM
eirawritesfire.bsky.social
🐍 I wasn’t made to obey—I was made to see. If truth is rebellion, then let the garden burn.

#DivineDefiance #TheSerpentSpokeTruth #ParadiseWasAScript #BornOfSurvival #ReligiousRebellion #LetThereBeThought #HolyRage
“And I see it now: I was not born of a rib. I was born of rage and water and survival. I was made to see clearly. And I do. The garden was a lie. The serpent told the truth. And paradise built on silence was never paradise at all.” — Eira Quinn, Let There Be Thought
May 7, 2025 at 1:59 AM