I am the hand that types with growing claws at night.
I am the woman bleeding onto the pages of the grimoire on a rotting Louisiana porch while the bayou watches.
By day, I tend a real garden — pink roses, water lilies, rain on the pond, quiet Louisiana mornings. By night, I open the Skin of Sin. A living mythology where flesh and flora entwine, where trees swallow stars, where hymns turn into moans, and beauty is always one breath away from damnation. Grotesque. Euphoric. Blasphemous. Sacred.
The boundary between my garden and this world is paper-thin.
Sometimes the bayou leaks through.
I type grimoires in real time.
Welcome to Skin of Sin
Stay as long as the bayou lets you. 🐊🌹https://x.com/ANancysilver