Between Bruises & Blooms

I have always believed

that abandoned houses
remember women kindly.

Perhaps because
they know
what it means
to be misunderstood.

So I lay upon the old stone,
wrapped in candlelight,
while ivy swallowed
another season.

The house watched.

Not with hunger—

with recognition.

Every crack in its walls
held another name.

Every shadow
another story
too old
to frighten anyone
who had already survived
their own.

The candle burned low.

Night gathered
like a congregation.

And for one impossible hour,

I could not tell

whether I was resting
at the feet
of a haunted house,

or whether the house
was keeping watch
over me.