nocturneverse

[nocturneverse]

Some of us were not made for this century. We were meant to be written to, not texted. 🥀✨🪶

[nocturneverse]

Even the stars you wish on have already died

🌹🖤✨

[nocturneverse]

Rain-Script

2 a.m. and the window’s a confession booth—

I’m all ink smudges,

half-drowned in monsoon breath.

Tell me, where are the men who don’t perform love

but let it pool in their palms like well-water,

quiet as a prayer’s comma?

I don’t need roses. I need a gaze that lingers

longer than politeness permits—

a look that stays, like the scar

left after you rip a bandage off too soon.

(Is that too much? The world says yes)

They’re out there—somewhere—

men who still unknot their throats

to say “Here, take my silence. It’s clean.”

No subtext. No games. Just hands

that don’t confuse touch with theft.

I want a love that’s accidentally holy—

like finding a hymn in the static of rain,

or how a rusted gate, left ajar,

sways open to a garden

it never meant to guard.

Let’s be honest: this era’s all flashbangs and filters.

But I’m cursive in a world of bullet points,

writing letters to a ghost who might

someday materialize, smelling of old books

and apology—not for being late,

but for existing at all.

Tonight, the storm’s a drunk poet,

slurring its verses against my glass.

I hum along, a tune without a name,

waiting for someone to misplace their cynicism

at my doorstep, like a wet coat

they’ll forget to reclaim.

—🌧️

(if you exist,

hurry.

the 21st century

is allergic to gentle things✨🌹)

[nocturneverse]

Somewhere, a version of me chose differently. I wonder if she is happier.

[nocturneverse]

Elegy for the Unforgotten Daughters

Beneath the moon’s cold, serrated grin,

a thousand screams stitch the silence thin—

not whispers, but wounds, not echoes, but proof:

the earth is a ledger, inked red with our truth.

They came as storms do—

with thunder, with teeth,

tore flesh into fables, left reason beneath

the rubble of ribs where a heartbeat once bloomed.

The world watched the rot. The rot was assumed.

(Why must we carve our pleas into bone?

Why does the gavel crack like a stone

on altars where girls are both lamb and lament?

"Not all men," they croon—

as if some don’t sculpt hell with their hands.

As if graves don’t yawn wider each dawn,

swallowing daughters who never saw war,

but died on its battlefield anyway.)

See how the crows feast on justice deferred,

beaks dripping with verdicts we’ve already heard.

A child’s frayed ribbon, still clinging to hair,

is proof God’s a myth—

or He’s simply not there.

We are the archives of unyielding rage,

the ghosts of the ones they forgot to erase.

Our voices are shovels, unearthing the shame

of empires built burning what they couldn’t tame.

You ask why we hate? Let the soil reply—

it’s swollen with daughters who dared to ask why.

Each blossom that rises from marrow and mire

is thorned into crowns, set with vengeance, not fire.

So let the earth keep us. Let the stars bear our scars.

Let the law be the wind—dissolving in dark.

But write this in blood where the timid can see:

We die as we lived—

unforgiven, never free.

—🌹

[nocturneverse]

The Doom and the Devil

He stands beside her now,

a broken man, or so they say.

His hands, rough, familiar, foreign,

cling to hers—cold, still, quiet.

He sobs, curses, calls her name,

as if she can rise,

as if she would.

I remember the wedding bells,

how they rang like silver laughter.

A white dress, a painted mouth,

a kiss that tasted of wine and vows.

They danced beneath a golden sky,

the world called it love.

But later, she cried alone in the garden,

while he counted the money in her dowry purse.

I remember the cold nights,

the slow suffocation, the empty rooms.

The house that held no war,

but never held peace.

The sound of a child’s small breath,

hiding beneath the wooden stairs.

“Papa hurt Mama again,”

she whispers to no one.

“Will he come for me now?”

He was no villain in the way they write,

no monster lurking in the dark.

No beast with fangs, no snake in suit.

But he was the weight she could not lift,

the silence she could not bear.

Not all prisons have iron bars.

Not all wounds leave blood behind.

I watched her shrink into herself,

slow as winter creeping in,

slow as petals turning to dust.

Then they found her in the field.

Face pale as early frost,

a ribbon slipping from her wrist.

Peace had found her,

or maybe she found it first.

And there he stood,

grief-stricken, shattered,

the man who never saw her dying

until she was already gone.

And I, I was there too.

The thing they fear, the name they curse.

I have watched the world unravel,

watched the quiet tragedies,

the ones no one writes about.

They call me the end, the thief of breath.

But tell me—who took hers first?

For she did not run from me.

She did not cower, did not weep.

She came to me with open arms,

and I, at last, let her sleep.

[nocturneverse]

She Never Made It Home

They will say she was at the wrong place,

At the wrong time—

As if the streets were not hers to walk.

They will ask what she was wearing,

As if the cloth could shield her

From the hands that never saw the ribbons.

They said she asked for it.

Tell me, how?

She cannot speak.

They will say she should not have trusted,

Should not have smiled,

Should not have laughed so loud,

Should not have lived so free.

But tell me—

Where is the place?

Where is the time?

Where is the life

A woman can live?

Tell me,

Where does she run,

When the world is both

Her knight and her knife?

They build memorials in whispers,

Forget her name before the flowers wilt,

Let the earth devour her voice.

The headlines fade.

The echoes quiet.

The world sighs—

It has been four years.

But she never made it home.