home
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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.
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By six o’clock, the house finally loosens its grip and ordinary chaos settles into a golden, temporary quiet.
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The hour before evening softens the day’s sharp edges and gives a tired house one small place to exhale.
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After months measured in empty rooms and phone calls, home finally has a date and hope dares to become something concrete.
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After years of surviving, gentleness feels almost unfamiliar—until love begins to look less like fireworks and more like safety.
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At two in the morning, cold coffee, laundry, and a judgmental cat hold up the same house motherhood keeps running through the dark.
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At four in the morning, every cat in the house has a role to play—and none of them involve letting their human sleep.
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Some days the poems wait while bottles, laundry, little hands, and ordinary motherhood take the whole page.
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Home becomes a scent left on borrowed fabric—sawdust, sweat, summer, and the strange peace of breathing someone in after they are gone.
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At four in the morning, a kitten wages affectionate war on every available finger before curling into the softness she was searching for.
Between Bruises & Blooms 