No

They say I let you slip,

like mist through broken bone,

but they don’t know what’s buried

in the walls beneath my home.

You wore a smile like winter glass,

fragile, false, and cold—

I traced your breath in candlelight,

then carved your name in mold.

You danced with me through shadowed halls,

your laugh a curse, a hymn—

You left a lock of hair behind,

I braided it with sin.

You th...

Title: Deep Roots

I come from soil that remembers pain—

from hands that tilled land under burning skies,

from grandmothers who hummed lullabies

while sweeping dust from their children’s eyes.

My roots run deep beneath my skin,

like old oak veins tangled in wind—

each scar a season, each wrinkle a ring,

each silence a story my elders didn’t sing.

The roots are not always pretty—

sometimes they r...

They called it Echo Zone 9—a patch of uncharted jungle deep in the Karadari Range, wrapped in ancient fog and sealed off in every satellite image. Six of us went in. Three came back.

And I was not one of them.

I’m writing this from a bunker carved into the belly of a mountain, a place not marked on any map, because I need someone—anyone—to know we didn’t die. We were left.

It started like any m...

The rain had just begun to fall, softly, like it knew it was interrupting something sacred.

They sat in the car, engine off, parked by the Hudson River. The city lights shimmered in the water, distant and blurry—like hope seen through tears.

Elias gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, heart louder than the downpour. He had practiced this moment a thousand times. In mirrors. In dreams. In s...

by Carlos Dávila Medina

The cloud covers the skies.

Rain pulls at your eyes.

But nothing—nothing—hurts as much

as a little word

that turns to lies.

Not a storm.

Not a scream.

Not the slash of a razor-sharp goodbye.

But the hush of a promise—

soft,

sweet,

and silent—

as it rots beneath your skin like a secret you swallowed

but never digested.

They said,

“Forever.”

A fragile thing, made of air and ...

(a horror poem of inner torment)

They whisper in static, beneath my skin,

A lullaby hummed from the jawbone in sin.

Not angels, not devils—just echoes of me,

Splintered and smiling, where no one can see.

“Do it,” they whisper. “Make it bleed.

Kindness is weakness. Pain is need.”

I shake my head, but it’s not mine—

It’s borrowed from shadows, stitched in twine.

The hallway breathes. The lights f...

I woke up in the back seat of a moving car, barefoot, my wrists sticky with dried blood—but it wasn’t mine. The engine hummed like it had purpose. I had none. The road outside was endless and black, like the sky had fallen and swallowed the world.

My mouth was dry. My heartbeat loud. The last thing I remembered was the therapist asking, “What would you say to her, if she were still alive?”

I sai...

The night is not just velvet skies,

Or stars that flicker soft goodbyes.

It breathes in ways the day forgets—

With shadows crawling in quiet threats.

The trees don’t sleep, they lean and leer,

Their branches bent to catch what’s near.

An owl blinks once, then disappears,

While silence hums with ancient fears.

The wind speaks names it shouldn’t know,

In voices cold, and low, and slow.

And somewhe...

“The House That Breathed Sand”

By Carlos Davila Medina

They told us not to go past the dune line after sunset.

Said the wind whispered the names of the dead there.

Said the house buried in sand wasn’t always empty.

But we were curious. Stupid. Young.

We thought the desert had no memory.

It took us less than an hour to find the house.

Its bones were still standing—cracked walls, open ...