Not monsters.
Not demons.
Just women
who have survived enough
to stop fearing
their own shadows.
Women
who write letters
they’ll never send.
Who press herbs
between pages.
Who speak
to photographs.
Who light candles
for people
the world
has already forgotten.
The witching hour
has never belonged
to darkness.
It belongs
to those
who learned
how to carry
their own light.
Between Bruises and Blooms 
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