I don't write for praise. I write to survive.
Call it a compulsion. A curse. A craving I can't silence.

Stories find me in the quiet and claw their way out. I don't chase muses-they haunt me. Some nights I burn with ideas; other nights, I disappear into the void. But I always come back. I always come back.

I'm not consistent. I'm not gentle. I write what hurts, what heals, what haunts. I write the things we bury deep and pretend not to feel. I romanticize the wrong ones. I kiss with bloodied lips. I tell love stories with teeth.

This isn't polished. It's not safe. It's real. It's raw.
And if you're here for that?
Welcome to the dark. Let's bleed together.