𝕰𝖛𝖊'𝖘 𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌

Hey there, lovelies. I’m your resident nocturnal creature, a 25-year-old alt-goth girl with a penchant for black lace, chunky boots, and the kind of music that makes your soul ache in the best way possible. This blog is my digital diary, a place where I spill my thoughts like ink on parchment, raw and unfiltered.

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I’m here for the poetry of the shadows, the beauty in the broken, and the magic of the macabre.

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So, grab a cup of something dark and bitter, and let’s get lost in the void together. 🌑🖤

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⋆☽₊˚.𓋹.˚₊☾⋆ 𝕬𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖔𝖒𝖞 𝖔𝖋 𝖆 𝕿𝖎𝖗𝖊𝖉 𝕾𝖔𝖚𝖑 ⋆☽₊˚.𓋹.˚₊☾⋆

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My soul walks barefoot

through days that don’t love me,

leaving pieces of itself

on every sharp moment.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹*♰*𓌺⋆. °⛧

I carry sadness

like a second heartbeat..

quiet, constant,

impossible to explain

without sounding broken.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹*♰*𓌺⋆. °⛧

Some nights I feel hollow,

like I was emptied gently

and no one noticed.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹*♰*𓌺⋆. °⛧

Like existing became a habit

instead of a choice.

I am still here, though..

fragile, shaking, unfinished.

Learning that surviving

is its own kind of prayer.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 𝕾𝖔𝖋𝖙 𝕰𝖓𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖙𝖔 𝕭𝖑𝖊𝖊𝖉 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

I learned to hide my softness

like a crime scene,

because every open heart

leaves evidence.

Vulnerability feels like

handing someone a knife

and calling it trust,

hoping they don’t smile

before they cut.

Still, I open myself

not because I’m brave,

but because silence

hurts more than being seen.

𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖐𝖓𝖎𝖋𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝕴 𝖐𝖊𝖊𝖕 𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖒𝖞 𝖙𝖔𝖓𝖌𝖚𝖊

Your love is the bruise I press

when no one’s watching

a sweet, sick ache I wear

like a crown of rust and roses.

I want you like a wound wants salt:

with teeth bared, with laughter

that sounds like breaking glass.

We are two shadows stitching ourselves

into something monstrous and magnificent,

a collision of teeth and trembling fingers,

of yes and more and ruin me

Darling, let them call us dangerous.

Let them whisper too much.

We’ll be the wildfire they can’t contain,

the sin they secretly pray to.

˚₊‧⁺⋆♱ 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖒𝖔𝖔𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖉𝖘 𝖒𝖞 𝖘𝖐𝖞 𝖆𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 ˚₊‧⁺⋆♱

the fever dream that cracks my ribs like a sacrament,

the blasphemy I’ll worship on my knees anyway.

Every whisper from your lips is a live wire,

every touch a slow arsenic drip.

I’d let you ruin me in languages not even the devil speaks,

let you paint the walls with my unraveling,

let the whole world burn if it meant

I could live forever in the hell of your mouth.

You say *stop* like it’s a prayer,

but darling,

⛧☾༺♰༻☽⛧ 𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖐𝖊 𝖒𝖊 ⛧☾༺♰༻☽⛧

Your love is a knife wrapped in velvet,

and I am the willing wound.

You trace my spine like a psalm,

each vertebra a rosary bead,

I pray to the darkness between your teeth,

the unholy altar of your hips.

We are two shadows merging,

a blasphemy of tangled limbs,

your mouth the only scripture I’ll ever need.

Take me apart like a sinner at confession,

until all that’s left is the echo of my gasps

and the devil’s laughter in your throat.

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I am a storm wrapped in skin,

a paradox too wild for their cages.

The world tries to name me,

but I am the whisper in the wind,

the shadow dancing on the edge of light.

I am the fire they cannot tame,

the dream that lingers after waking.

Let them try to define me,

my silence will speak louder than their words.

⛧☾༺♰༻☽⛧ 𝕿𝖔𝖚𝖈𝖍 𝖒𝖊 ⛧☾༺♰༻☽⛧

Your touch is a language I never learned,

but my body speaks it fluently.

Your hands are maps, tracing the contours

of a terrain I didn’t know existed.

The air between us hums, electric,

a current that pulls me closer,

until I’m drowning in the heat of your breath,

the weight of your gaze,

the promise of what’s to come.

We are a collision of stars,

a symphony of skin and silence,

and when the world falls away,

all that’s left is the rhythm of us,

wild and untamed,

burning brighter with every beat.

.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚. 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕭𝖊𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖞 𝖔𝖋 𝕭𝖊𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖀𝖓𝖋𝖎𝖓𝖎𝖘𝖍𝖊𝖉.˚⊹. ࣪𓉸 ࣪⊹˚

Life isn’t about having it all figured out. It’s about the messy, beautiful process of becoming. The cracks, the flaws, the stumbles, they’re what make us real.

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So here’s to embracing the unfinished parts of ourselves. To the dreams we’re chasing, the lessons we’re learning, the person we’re still becoming.

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Be a work in progress. Be a masterpiece in the making. Be unapologetically *you.*

Stay curious. Stay growing.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹*♰*𓌺⋆. °⛧ 𝕻𝖑𝖚𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖉, 𝖚𝖓𝖕𝖑𝖚𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖉 ⛧°. ⋆𓌹*♰*𓌺⋆. °⛧

I saw the best minds of my generation lost in the scroll,

addicted to the glow of screens,

trading their fire for fleeting likes,

their voices drowned in the noise of algorithms,

their dreams flattened into content.

I saw them forget how to feel,

how to connect, how to be real,

while the world burned outside their windows.

I wonder if they’ll ever unplug,

if they’ll remember what it means to burn bright,

to live instead of just exist.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.𝕾𝖕𝖎𝖈𝖊 𝖀𝖕 𝖄𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝕷𝖎𝖋𝖊 (𝕭𝖊𝖈𝖆𝖚𝖘𝖊 𝕭𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖎𝖘 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉)࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Let’s be real: life’s too short for boring. I’m not here to play it safe, to tiptoe around the edges of what’s “acceptable.” Nah, I’m here to set the whole damn thing on fire, metaphorically, of course (unless you’re into that kind of thing, then no judgment).

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So here’s your reminder to turn up the heat. Be bold. Be messy. Be unapologetically *you.* Let them clutch their pearls while you’re out here living your best, spiciest life.

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Spice isn’t just a flavor; it’s a lifestyle. It’s saying the thing everyone’s thinking but too scared to say. It’s wearing the outfit that makes people do a double-take. It’s dancing like no one’s watching, even when they *are* watching, because who cares?

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And if anyone tries to dull your shine? Honey, hit ‘em with your best “I dare you” look and keep walking.

Stay spicy. Stay fierce. Stay untamed.

๋ ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕬𝖗𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝕼𝖚𝖎𝖊𝖙 𝕽𝖊𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖎𝖔𝖓 ๋ ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑

Sometimes, rebellion isn’t loud. It’s not always protests or punk anthems or setting things on fire (though, let’s be real, those have their place). Sometimes, it’s the quiet acts of defiance that cut the deepest.

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It’s saying *no* when the world demands *yes.*

It’s staying in bed on a day you’re supposed to be “productive.”

It’s wearing the outfit that makes you feel like *you,* even if it doesn’t fit their idea of “appropriate.”

It’s loving the things they tell you not to love.

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Rebellion is in the small, stubborn ways we refuse to let this world grind us down. It’s in the moments we choose ourselves over their expectations. So today, rebel quietly. Take up space. Exist unapologetically.

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Because sometimes, the softest whispers are the most powerful.

Stay gentle. Stay fierce. Stay you

⛧☾༺♰༻☽⛧

I am a ghost in a world that craves flesh,

a whisper in a room full of shouts.

They build their towers of gold and glass,

while I dig my fingers into the earth,

searching for roots that remember my name.

The wind carries the scent of forgotten things,

of rain-soaked graves and unspoken promises.

I wear my scars like a map,

each one a story, a battle, a truth.

They say, 'Be still, be small, be silent,'

but my heart is a wild thing,

a storm wrapped in skin,

and I will not be tamed.

Let them call me chaos,

let them fear what they cannot control.

I am the shadow that dances on the edge of their light,

the echo that lingers long after the song has ended.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⛧♱ 𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔩 ♱⛧⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The night is a velvet tongue,

licking the edges of my fractured thoughts.

I am a constellation of mismatched parts,

stitched together with thread that glows in the dark.

They say, 'Fix yourself,'

but I am not a thing to be repaired.

I am a mosaic of shattered stars,

a symphony of silence and screams.

The moon watches, cold and distant,

as I carve my name into the bark of a dying tree.

Even in decay, there is beauty,

a kind of magic that only the broken understand.

So let them call me strange,

let them whisper their warnings.

I am not afraid of the dark,

I was born in it.

🕸 𝕷𝖎𝖋𝖊 𝖎𝖘 𝖆 𝕵𝖔𝖐𝖊, 𝕭𝖚𝖙 𝖆𝖙 𝕷𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖙 𝕸𝖞 𝕰𝖞𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖗 𝖎𝖘 𝕾𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖕 🕸

⋆｡‧₊°♱༺𓆩❦︎𓆪༻♱༉‧₊˚.

Let’s be real: adulthood is just figuring out how to function on caffeine, spite, and the occasional existential crisis. Society expects us to have it all together (career, relationships, *mental stability*) but honestly, I’m over here just trying to remember if I fed my cat or just thought about feeding my cat.

They say, “Follow your dreams,” but my dreams are mostly just me eating cereal in my underwear while watching The Addams Family for the 47th time. And you know what? I’m okay with that.

So here’s to embracing the chaos, laughing at the absurdity, and perfecting the art of not giving a damn. Life’s a mess, but at least my eyeliner is on point.

Stay weird, stay sarcastic, and remember: if anyone tries to tell you how to live your life, just hit them with your best resting witch face.

⋆₊ ♱ 𝕾𝖔𝖈𝖎𝖊𝖙𝖞 𝖎𝖘 𝖆 𝕭𝖗𝖔𝖐𝖊𝖓 𝕽𝖊𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖉, 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝕴’𝖒 𝕿𝖎𝖗𝖊𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝕯𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖙𝖔 𝕴𝖙𝖘 𝕿𝖚𝖓𝖊 ⋆₊ ♱

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Let’s cut through the noise: this society is a mess. It’s a shiny, hollow machine that feeds on our labor, our creativity, and our pain. It tells us to chase success, but what does that even mean? A job that drains your soul? A life spent performing happiness for people who don’t care? A system that rewards greed and punishes anyone who dares to be different?

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The truth is, the game is rigged. It’s built to keep the privileged on top and the rest of us scrambling for scraps. They tell us to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, but what if we don’t even *have* boots? What if the rules were designed to make sure we never win?

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But here’s the thing: I’m done playing along. I refuse to shrink myself to fit into their narrow, suffocating boxes. I refuse to apologize for my anger, my sadness, my weirdness. This society is broken, but that doesn’t mean we have to be.

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So here’s to the outcasts, the dreamers, the ones who see through the lies. Here’s to carving out spaces where we can exist on our own terms. Here’s to building something better, even if it’s just in the corners of our lives.

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Stay loud. Stay angry. Stay weird.

⋆｡‧₊°♱༺𓆩❦︎𓆪༻♱༉‧₊˚.

The stars are dead, but their ghosts still haunt the sky,

casting fractured light on a world that forgot how to bleed.

I wander these hollow streets, a specter in fishnets and steel,

my heart a caged thing, rattling its bars with every step.

The wind carries the scent of forgotten graves,

and I breathe it in like a lover’s promise.

I am the echo of a scream no one heard,

the shadow of a flame that never burned.

Here, in the ruins of what could have been,

I find my solace: sharp, jagged, and beautifully broken.