book poetry
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Some names are built to be spoken together; Sgaeyl’s absence leaves even Tairn sounding unfinished.
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An unreliable fictional mind mirrors anxiety’s cruelest question: can I trust what my own brain is telling me?
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He knew he could not swim—and jumped anyway. A poem about sacrifice, remembrance, and the life that continued because one cat chose another’s tomorrow.
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Violet’s rage at Dain becomes a poem about betrayal, memory, consent, and the boundary that finally gets spoken out loud.
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Dark romance lets me stand close enough to fictional danger to feel the heat without mistaking it for something I want in real life.
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Maybe grief doesn’t care what something is made of—blood, memory, or ink. A poem for the fictional losses that somehow become real inside us.
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Twilight still feels like a house I lived in once: dramatic, haunted, imperfect, and somehow still home.
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I know overwhelmed. I have worn it like another layer of skin. But even from my knees, I would have stayed.
