Between Bruises and Blooms

I packed a bowl
before the sun surrendered,
tucked matches into my pocket
like tiny promises of fire,
and wandered toward the house
the town refuses to name.

Its walls wore ivy
like an old witch wears grief—
not hiding it,
only letting it bloom.

The windows were dark enough
to keep secrets,
the doorway bowed
as though every ghost
had been welcomed home.

I lit one candle.

Not for protection.

For company.

The flame bent with every breath of wind,
painting gold across forgotten bricks,
making the vines look like fingers
reaching for one more story.

Smoke curled from the bowl
to meet the smoke from the wick,
and somewhere between them
the night began to soften.

The forest knew my name.

The crows kept their distance.

Even the crickets lowered their voices
like they understood
this wasn’t the kind of silence
meant to be broken.

People are afraid of abandoned places.

They think empty houses hunger.
I think they remember.

Every cracked floorboard
holds another heartbeat.

Every vine climbing the walls
is nature quietly saying,

“You may rest now.
I’ll carry what you left behind.”

So I sat there,
half witch,
half wildfire,
breathing cedar, cannabis, and candle wax
beneath a moon
that looked suspiciously
like it had been watching women
do this for centuries.

When the bowl was ash
and the candle surrendered
to its own small death,

I thanked the house.

Not because it haunted me.

But because, for one quiet evening,

it let me haunt it instead.