dark poetry
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Softness was never the same as harmlessness; roses have thorns, pretty things have teeth, and survival taught her how to use both.
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The forest becomes a burial ground for old apologies, dead promises, and the version of herself who kept begging people to stay.
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At three in the morning, survival looks less like magic and more like a chipped mug, vitamins, cold water, and the promise to wake up tomorrow.
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A door in Black Briar Forest holds every apology and goodbye that never came, until she chooses a path that goes around it.
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One glowing window in a sleeping house holds the last confession of a night that still has not learned how to end.
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Before sleep, set down the worries, conversations, and impossible expectations that were never meant to follow you into the dark.
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After sunset, the brave face comes off and loneliness settles beside the cold cup, asking to be felt instead of outrun.
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In a ruined chapel of ravens and ivy, one candle burns for the women history called wicked because they refused to disappear quietly.
