I’ve been sitting with this story — My Love Grows Where My Rosemary Grows — for months now, letting it grow its roots through me the same way the hedge grows through the Linden property. It’s the kind of story that doesn’t stay politely on the page. It lingers. It hums. It taps the back of your mind when you’re trying to sleep.
And lately, I’ve been thinking about putting it on PoetrySoup.
Not because it’s a poem (though parts of it feel like one), but because PoetrySoup has always been a place where writing isn’t just read — it’s felt. It’s a community that understands atmosphere, emotion, and the kind of quiet horror that doesn’t need jump scares to get under your skin.
I keep asking myself:
Is PoetrySoup the right place for a Southern Gothic psychological horror story?
And honestly… maybe it is.
Because this story isn’t just horror. It’s grief. It’s inheritance. It’s the way families bury things and expect the soil to stay quiet. It’s the way memory lies to protect us — or to keep us trapped.
PoetrySoup readers understand that kind of emotional architecture. They know how to sit with a line until it blooms. They know how to read between the roots.
I think they might understand Ren. I think they might feel Violet. I think they might hear the hedge whispering, too.
So maybe it’s time.
Maybe it’s time to let the story out of the house and see what grows.