dark poetry
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History was kinderto the swordthan it ever wasto the woman bleeding beneath it. That is how the story goes. A man becomes violentand someone searches his childhoodfor the wound that explains him. A woman becomes angryand suddenlythe anger is the crime. So they wrote Medusabackward. Started with the snakes. Started with the stone. Started with…
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The bruises faded, but the body remembers. A poem about surviving abuse, relearning safety, and blooming from the places once left black and blue.
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You keep coming back. Not loudly.Not enoughto leave fingerprintson the glass. Just enoughto fog it. A little look here.Another there.A quiet strollthrough roomsyou swearyou do not care about. Funny,how curiositystarts looking a lotlike hungerwhen it keeps returningto the same table. I wonderwhat you are hopingto find— his name?your fear?proofthat the pastis still breathing? Maybe you…
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In a windowless room, surviving becomes testimony, and healing begins when someone listens to the worst truth without disbelief.
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Detectives may leave the badge on the dresser, but some cases follow them home in photographs, memories, and moments they cannot simply wash away.
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Laughter becomes a locked door when jokes are easier to offer than the painful truths waiting just beneath the surface.
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Pharma built walls and counted on silence; Wildfire remembers every lie, every door, and how beautifully secrets burn.
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A nameless spirit survives as a cold draft beneath old floorboards, haunting the house with the memory of a human name it forgot.
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The forest seems to understand wounded things, sending home a kitten whose thorns are only fear wearing fur.
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A little feral creature arrives with claws, teeth, and every reason not to trust hands—then slowly discovers what softness can mean.
