gothic poetry
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I dream of angelswith clean handsand mouths full of mercy, but morning always finds mewith smoke in my lungsand old ghostssleeping at the foot of my bed. I have begged heavento leave the porch light on,just once,so I could rememberwhat it feels liketo be expected somewhere. Instead,the dark knows my name. It curls beside melike…
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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 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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The cruelest spell needs no candles or chanting—only a promise of tomorrow that never arrives.
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A ghost-lit chapel keeps candles burning for someone who promised later and never came, until hope itself starts feeling haunted.
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The village feared the crows; she listened to them, carrying feathers, wildness, and a name older than the one she was given.
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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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Lucifer becomes the quiet guardian of unfinished poems, walking through the dark as though it were simply another room.
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At a house no map can find, Hekate does not choose the road—she only asks which version of yourself is ready to walk it.
Between Bruises & Blooms 