Slow.
Entangling.
Rot wears the face of patience.
Silence gathered like rust.
Endurance cracked quietly.
Decay entered silently and made itself a home.
Dust fell into every sacred thing.
The ashtray overflowed beside untouched flowers.
The garden party continued.
Birthdays,
rolling in faster every year,
dragging their long shadows behind them.
Something terrible
always circles back.
The innocence fled early,
left me sleepless
in a cold room of memories turned nightmares.
I still hear younger laughter
through half-lit hallways, like ghosts through another house—
sugar-stained fingers, small hands,
bright candles,
warm lights in winter windows.
The world untouched by dread.
Time bruises in unknowing ways.
Memory decays softly.
Now I grow flowers alone,
watering them with versions of myself I no longer recognize.
No candles to burn.
Only silence waiting in the walls.
Getting older
feels like watching winter
move into the bones.
I spent years
waiting for grief
to come roaring back through the door.
Instead it learned to sit beside me.
Never gone,
only softer now,
lingering like an old friend waiting across the table.
The years no longer howl
like they used to.
Light returns slowly,
through the kitchen windows,
laying gold across unwashed dishes
and half-watered plants.
Half-warm coffee.
Rain against the garden.
The cat asleep nearby.
My name resting safely in my own hands.
The light asks nothing of me.
There are still nights
where memory returns like weather,
slow thunder in the bones,
old wounds opening their tired mouths—
but it passes.
I no longer confuse peace with emptiness.
No one tells you,
how strange it feels
when your life finally stops hurting.
How silence itself
can make you weep.
Some wounds never vanish.
They simply loosen their grip.
The world grows around it.
Now the winters arrive gently.
Not as punishment—
just another season passing through.
I remember every word
that cut me open.
I remember every fire
that left more
than it burned.
I remember the void
that kept growing
until there was nothing else.
I remember the storm
that almost took me—
almost.
I remember every hit,
every mark.
every scar—
inside
and out.
Holding roses,
bleeding out on the floor—
the witching hour waits,
voices at the door.
my love,
built in ruin,
wounded.
there’s blood in the water—
and still
I ruin more.
Yesterday’s faults
become tomorrow’s sorrows.
In the dark corners of my mind
I string stars like fairy lights.
I take thunder in my chest
and turn it to fuel—
to light the fire within.
On my last breath,
I begged the night for a saviour—
but the darkness stayed quiet.
No one came.
The cold laid the truth bare:
in the chaos, in the ruins,
no one is coming
to pull you from your wreckage.
Your salvation is yours.
You save yourself—
or don’t rise.
I want to know the truth of your soul,
Your strength, your story,
The fire that drives your heartbeat forward through the night.
I’m not afraid of the monsters you carry—
The rage born of old wounds, the scars,
The hurt forged in your bones.
I am no stranger to the dark underworld;
My monsters, my oldest companions—
Linger like background noise that refuses to die away.
But we are not our monsters;
We are what we create from the mess they leave behind.
Show me the artworks of your life.
Create some magic with me.
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