gothic poetry
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The deck never predicted the future; it simply kept refusing to let her lie about the present.
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The women they called dangerous were often simply the ones who learned to survive without asking permission.
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At three in the morning, a candle, black coffee, and forgotten women’s names turn the witching hour into a cathedral.
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The witching hour belongs less to monsters than to women who learned to carry their own light through every shadow.
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Midnight has witnessed the ink, cold coffee, motherhood, ghosts, and every unfinished version of her that found a voice after dark.
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A familiar commenter keeps returning to the same haunted houses and poems, becoming a quiet companion at the edge of the lantern light.
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At three in the morning, the world goes quiet enough for old houses, moonlight, and sleepless women to remember each other’s names.
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At one in the morning, an old house keeps watch while the rest of the world sleeps and every dark window seems to stare back.
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At the edge of forgetting, an old house seems to know the name of the woman sitting beneath its porch with a candle against the dark.
Between Bruises & Blooms 