Between Bruises and Blooms

Tonight,

the abandoned house

became my cathedral.

The ivy climbed the walls

like spells written in a language

only roots remember.

I lit a candle

on the broken porch.

Packed my bowl.

Watched smoke curl upward

until it became impossible

to tell

what belonged to the flame

and what belonged to me.

The wind carried cedar,

earth,

and something older—

the scent of rain

that hasn’t fallen yet.

People would call this place cursed.

I call it sacred.

Because every witch knows

nature always returns

to collect what mankind abandons.

Brick becomes moss.

Wood becomes soil.

Silence becomes prayer.

And women
who have survived impossible things

become forests.