Lola Gore

18 + 𝙂𝙞𝙧𝙡 𝘽𝙡𝙤𝙜 & 𝙊𝙣𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙧𝙮 ☆23 • She/Her✩INFJ-T. Leo Sun, Aquarius Moon, Sagittarius Rising✩ 𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖉 𝖑𝖎𝖋𝖊, 𝖍𝖔𝖗𝖓𝖞 𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖙𝖘, 𝖊𝖝𝖈𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖘𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖐 ⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪꜱᴋ✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺

[bedtimebluesx]

True Crime comment sections are top tier 👌

[sidneysheldon]

Sidney Sheldon, “Nothing Lasts Forever”

[inarticulatedoll]

im open to being held captive if you promise not to raise your voice at me and stroke my hair a lot

[bedtimebluesx]

Original Poetry LXII.

Forget Me Not

Bedtime Blues

If I tell you my life story, will you listen? If I show you my true feelings, would you comprehend?

When I am at my lowest and I share it with your heart, your pure, kind reaction tells me we will never part.

Prove that I’m not a burden, that you see me through the pain, my trauma and the hopes that seem like wishes in the rain.

React to every piece of me, embrace the joy and strife, because the way you love me breathes new hope into my life.

bedtimeblues p.s. Lola Gore

[bedtimebluesx]

Original Poetry LXI.

The Daughter of Sable

Nocturna Dicta

True spoke the matron who bore me to blight: “Alas! for my daughter is wed to the night.” To my bitter dismay, the grim verdict was mine. With eyes of obsidian, no beauty divine — I rule caramel flesh and crow–feather hair, a creature forsaken, all sable and bare. I flee from the sunbeams, in terror and dread, to scatter my ashes o'er realms of the dead.

I am smoked honey poured over hollowed-out bone, a phantom of velvet, of shadow, and stone — yet witness, ye heavens!

I loved without measure, and poured for their taking my heart's richest treasure — but ever they clamored and cried out for more, then barred me in silence behind the locked door.

Though born of the talon, the beak, and the wing, a scavenger charting where broken things cling, with lungs caved in by the phantom of grief, I bear a grim carrion-heart past belief.

At the midnight portal, a thief of the bright, I hoard the pale silver and sparks of the light, leaving glossy black feathers to measure the gloom, and mark out the path to my desolate tomb.

How cold was their kinship when draining my well! They quaffed of my essence, then left me to dwell imprisoned in dust and the damp of the mold, where to darkness and silence my spirit is sold.

True spoke the matron — I burn for the rest, with maddening delusions locked deep in my chest. No more than a maid of the night shall I be; Ay, true spoke the mother who birthed misery. Ay, true spoke the mother to me.

bedtimeblues p.s. Lola Gore

[bedtimebluesx]

Original Poetry LX.

Strigomur

Nocturna Dicta

My flesh doth burn, a furnace stoked with thee, thy dark shadow haunts my fevered bed.

A wretched, star–crossed famine chokes my breath, until my lips upon thy throat are fed.

I crave the heavy iron of thy frame, to feel thy tongue devour my sin — to tear away the garments of the world, and let the wild, unholy rite begin.

Thy fierce, demanding touch is all I seek, to drown within the tempest of thy chest.

Consume me, break me, take me to the earth, until this raging, carnal creatura finds rest.

bedtimeblues p.s. Lola Gore

[bedtimebluesx]

Original Poetry LIX.

The Fevered Epistle

Nocturna Dicta

Unto my dearest love, these fervent lines I send, with a spirit desperate and overflowing — A fever rages in my unbridled frame, thy phantom kiss consumes the quiet night; my pulses stir, ignited by thy name, in breathless yearning for thy touch and might.

I ache to yield beneath thy heavy chest, to feel thy sinew press against my own; by this unholy, carnal urge possessed, where all my foolish pride is overthrown.

Come tear the veil, subdue this aching wild, and quench the thirst that burns within my veins; no longer by pale innocence beguiled, I crave thy dark embrace, and all it's chains.

P.S. Eagerly awaiting the moment we meet, I remain yours through every passing hour —

Lola Gore

[bedtimebluesx]

Y'all include me in ur nut when you reblog me on ur porn accounts (⁠☞⁠ ͡⁠°⁠ ͜⁠ʖ⁠ ͡⁠°⁠)⁠☞

[bedtimebluesx]

‘Dollhouse, dressed up, perfect, messed up — torture me to sleep, paint the air I breathe.’

— The Weeknd & Lily-Rose Depp, Dollhouse / The Idol, 2023

[stardollly]

[bedtimebluesx]

“She takes the pills to fall asleep, and dreams that she's invisible — tormented dreams, she stays awake, recalls when she was capable.”

— Jack Off Jill, Vivica / Clear Hearts Grey Flowers, 2000

[bedtimebluesx]

“I watched the veins under my skin moving, changing from blue to red. Those colors battle to repent — fighting some kind of punishment for loving you.”

— Chelsea Wolfe, Colors of Blood / Abyss, 2015

[bedtimebluesx]

Journal Entry

Beneath the Floorboards

Overture

Dear Diary,

I still live in that basement.

The concrete floor, the suffocating walls, the final click of the locks. I can still feel the cold iron of the long chain dangling just above my tiny, desperate fingers — a line to a light I was never meant to reach.

The ground was like ice against my skin.

I was so small, so hollowed out, so entirely forgotten. I remember praying to a God I already knew was silent beneath the floorboards, drowned out by the thudding footsteps and hollow laughter of the adults inhabiting the warmth above me.

My mother saw what you saw, and she hated the reflection.

There was a revolving door of strangers. So many figures stepping into the role of "father." And the sickening weight of being the one they all noticed first. I was raised in a house of bright lights and blurred boundaries. By the time I was six, the world was a stage where I was taught to perform. You smiled and whispered that it was alright. You called it a game, but it was a trap.

And then, there was you.

You claimed it was innocent. You took my virtue before I even knew I had it. You taught me lessons that left me fractured. I grew to fear the feeling of water; I hated the bath because it felt like trying to wash away a memory that wouldn't leave. But if I didn't comply, the walls would close in even tighter.

You were the architect of the shadows. And now, I am blamed for the very wreckage you designed.

I was only a child.

But the darkness in that house went deeper than one person. Fear was a constant guest the moment the front door opened. Ever since the locks were broken and the privacy was gone, there was nothing left to keep the outside world from coming in at night. The truth was known, yet the silence was enforced.

“But don't tell anyone. What happens at home, stays at home.”

That is why I waited. That is why I chose the moment we were in the light of the world to speak the truth of what happened behind those closed doors.

Tell me, Father...when the reality of what you lost finally set in, how did it feel to watch your world crumble into dust?

— Lola Gore

[bedtimebluesx]

“I just wanted to be yours, can I be yours?”

— Ethel Cain, Strangers / Preacher's Daughter, 2022

[bedtimebluesx]

Journal Entry

In His Image

Overture

Dear Diary,

Perhaps this was the path I paved for myself.

I carry a heavy burden of guilt for the life I’ve lived, a haunting weight born of drifting away from the warnings I needed most. Authority never sat well with me, a reflex born from early trauma that made trust a difficult bridge to build.

My biological father was a man of deep talent, though his life was marked by its own complexities. My mother met him in the pews of a Pentecostal church, and they married when she was young — her being sixteen and my father? twenty-one. My sister and I were born into a household that seemed stable, but open relationships and hidden truths eventually tore them apart.

Before my first birthday, my mother discovered aspects of my father’s life he had kept hidden, including his preference for men. They divorced, yet they managed to remain close friends. My mother supported him, though for a young woman so rooted in her faith, it was a confusing reality to navigate.

My father was an artist — a painter, a photographer, and a writer of poetry and short stories. He created portraits so realistic they seemed to breathe, though my world was small then, and I hadn't seen much of the world's art. His presence was rare and fleeting. When he did visit, he showered us with whatever we desired, perhaps trying to make up for the time he was gone.

Growing up, I often pushed boundaries, seeking the attention I felt I was missing.

By the time I was four, I was already doing things far too mature for my age. For my fifth birthday, I asked him for red lipstick and fishnet stockings. He obliged without question. While my mother tried to provide structure and warned me about the importance of safety, I often looked to my father for the freedom she couldn't give. If she said no, I knew my father would say yes.

Of course, my mother was right.

In my adult reflections, I realize I spent years searching for his presence in others, looking for a sense of security and love that felt just out of reach. That search led me into dangerous situations and into the company of those who did not have my best interests at heart — older men — anywhere from ages nineteen to Thirty-four.

I just wanted to feel safe. Secure. Loved. Instead, I was groomed, and I almost became a child trafficking statistic.

My father never truly knew the depth of my struggles. How could he? He wasn't around for my mother to tell him, and I knew he wouldn't punish me anyway. He was running from the exact same ghosts — chasing partners, pills, and liquor, desperately hunting for the affection his own parents never gave him.

I should have listened.

He always told me to be safe, to be careful, and to look after my sister. But I couldn't protect her while I was completely lost, searching for him.

I saw him one last time before he passed away.

He knew something was wrong with me; he could see that something terrible had happened. Looking into his eyes for that final time, I knew I had finally found him. And in me, he found himself.

So maybe I wasn't meant to listen.

Maybe he needed to see his own daughter suffer the exact same wounds just so he could finally heal his own inner child.

Maybe I was born to be the warning example.

Because even now, sitting here at twenty-three...I still never listen.

— Lola Gore

[bedtimebluesx]

Journal Entry

The Girl with The Crow - Feather Hair

Overture

Dear Diary,

They say I was born with eyes wide open.

To the doctors, it was an ominous sign of congenital trauma; they warned my mother that the dark would soon claim my sight forever.

But my eyes stayed open.

Instead of blindness, a different kind of shadow settled over my childhood, and I became a timid creature of quiet terror.

If you ever have a child who refuses to speak, look closer — do not mistake their silence for peace.

By the time I was a few months old, the hallucinations had already begun.

My mother watched in dread as my gaze tracked things that weren't there.

Years later, when the absence seizures began, the doctors realized my infant episodes were actually early, silent convulsions destroying my mind from within.

But my mother didn't trust medicine.

She was raised in the fire and brimstone of the Pentecostal church, believing that faith alone could cure the sick.

Because my eyes never failed — requiring nothing more than thick glass lenses — she wore her pride like a shield.

She believed she had saved me.

But when the creatures inside my head crawled into the light, she did not see a sick child — she saw the Devil.

Be careful what you leave in the dark, for it always finds a way out.

Unable to speak, my hands became my voice.

I would raise my arms to the ceiling, whispering secrets to the empty air.

I became obsessed with the grotesque.

I spent hours collecting–drawing nests of writhing maggots, rows of disembodied human teeth, and cosmic, alien horrors.

I hid these sketches on the walls and on the backs of my dresser drawers.

My mother was rightfully terrified, but she prayed instead of seeking help...and that is when the house invited something else in.

When I was three years old, a boy named Elder appeared.

He looked immaculate — bright blonde hair, sky-blue eyes, a neat blue collared shirt, khakis, and polished dark dress shoes — but appearances are the easiest way to hide intent.

Elder only materialized when my younger siblings' father drank; he only came when that man turned his fists on my mother.

When the violence started, Elder would take my hand.

His grip was an escape, leading me down the apartment’s forest-green stairs, out the door, and down a pitch-black alleyway.

He took me into the deep brush of the backyard, to a gate choked with heavy, thorned roses — every other day, we would throw our bodies against those thorns.

They scraped my fragile skin, drawing blood, but the pain of the roses was nothing compared to the terror inside my home.

We pushed until we broke through to the other side, the night wind hitting our faces like a cold shock — and then, we would run.

My bare feet flew over the dirt right beside his little dress shoes, as I followed him blindly through the woods to a decaying, abandoned house.

Elder would turn the handle, open the door, and usher me inside.

To a three-year-old child, a rotting, forgotten house felt like a sanctuary — but looking back, I realize the truest danger of a fractured childhood:

when your home becomes a living nightmare, you will gladly let a ghost lead you into the dark just to feel safe.

— Lola Gore

[bedtimebluesx]

Original Poetry LVIII.

The No. 13 Missive

Nocturna Dicta

Dear Señora Flores,

Do not seek me, I implore you, for I may depart this night to spare this house the shadow of a ruin that is mine alone to bear.

I yearn to quit this mortal stage, to vanish like a breath, to learn if weeping eyes would mourn my unrecorded death.

Would they unleash the hunting hounds, or pour another ale? I long to slip into the fog, a phantom wan and pale.

Come what may, a fading face on every lamppost tree, a fairy-story void of end, a ghost at midnight tea.

I yearn to hide, to lock away the grief that starts to rot, and bury all the broken things the winter has forgot.

But if I dance into the night to force their eyes to see, I fear they’d find a newer joy, and lose the myth of me.

I yearn to flee, to turn to smoke, to wither and depart, for only when the candle dies, I'll know who held my heart.

P.S. — Seek me not beneath the graveyard willow, but where the discarded and the drifting find their quiet sanctuary. There, in the shadows of Bedtime Blues where the unloved yearn for a home they never knew, lies the key to the peace we were so cruelly denied. With a bleeding heart and an eternal farewell,

Lola Gore

07_31_2017