Gothicism

Mi’jon W.

11.08.25

The human soul is tailored and refined through deep pain and struggle—its flesh beaten and bruised into something glorious. But how could I, a wilted flower whose habitat once consisted of dust, unsightly and unspeakable vermin, and decay, ever grow into something beautiful? A blossom matured among spores and rot, now placed in an environment where sunlight and freshness permeate the soil.

I stand among the others—absolutely beautiful, with an appearance kissed by God—and no one questions my origins. Nothing so exquisite, a clear manifestation of the heavens making love to a face, could ever have witnessed the horrors of humanity, they think.