E.S. writes poetry and fiction for people who survived by becoming strange little creatures about it. The work lives in the aftermath, under the bed, in the corner of the room where the light does not quite reach. It is for anyone who adapted so well they forgot they were allowed to stop.
Under E.S. Writing, the themes are quiet violence, emotional hoarding, love that bites, and survival that leaves teeth marks. Healing is not a straight line here, it is a raccoon rummaging through your feelings at 3 a.m. There are bones. There are flowers. There are jokes that show up exactly when they should not.
E.S. writes the thoughts you lock away because they are not polite enough for daylight. The tone is dark, feral, and funny in a something is wrong but at least we can laugh way. If the writing feels like being seen by a goblin holding a candle and nodding knowingly, that is intentional.
This work is for people who stayed too long, learned too much, and are done pretending survival was noble. No inspiration. No tidy endings. Just words for the quiet violence that made us.
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