haunted syllabus: dispatches from the velvet desk

 

my name is charlie. i write from a desk that’s seen too much—coffee rings, tears, glitter, blood (metaphorical and once…not), and scribbled ghosts of things i wasn’t supposed to say out loud. this blog isn’t polished. it’s pulsing. it’s alive. it’s feral. it’s mine.

 

i’ve been through some shit. the kind you don’t walk away from clean. addiction, survival, love that tore, love that stayed. nights i didn’t think i’d make it. mornings i didn’t want to. but i did. i’m still here. still writing, still soft somehow. still stupidly hopeful in the most reckless way.

 

this isn’t just a blog—it’s a dispatch from the edge of feeling too much. sometimes i’ll be poetic. sometimes profane. often both in the same sentence. i’ll talk about grief, queerness, sex, trauma, healing, and that terrifying ache of wanting to be known.

 

and now—it’s yours, too.

there’s a drawer open here. if you’ve got a secret burning holes in your throat, a truth you’ve never dared speak, or a story that never fit anywhere else—leave it. tell me. this velvet desk has room for your ghosts too.

 

if you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt like you’re too much—too sensitive, too messy, too strange—i want you to know something: i made this place for us.

 

you’re already inside. digitally of course.

(…but emotionally? yeah. you’re home.)