Notes from the Fire & Forest: A Feral Poetics Manifesto

There are words that arrive quietly—unraveling like smoke, pulsing like memory. This post is for those words. It’s for the genre that had no name, until I gave it one. For the ache that couldn’t be translated, until I wrote it down.

This is not a love letter. This is not a poem. This is something else. And it begins here.

Notes from the Fire & Forest: A Feral Poetics Manifesto

A Feral Poetics Manifesto from the fire, the forest, and the soul of Notesformysoulmate

“I am made of memories, of myth and ash, stitched together by longing.” — Eve

1. The Need That Called Her Forth

Feral Poetics, as I practice it, was born from a need to speak my heart’s truths in their native language. Not watered down. Not smoothed out. Not edited for sensitivity.

I wanted to sound like myself—when I cry, when I rage, when I remember. I needed a genre that didn’t make me rewrite the ache in a prettier dialect. So I shaped one. 

"Every word is a lantern back through the dark."

2. How It Began

I was told my writing was too subjective. Too raw. Too intense. Too much.

I tried to shape my voice to the genres I was handed— but the words tasted like they belonged to someone else.

So I forged my own—from firelight and fragments. From silence and sacred ache.

Feral Poetics, as I live it, is where sacred grit meets lyric stillness. It’s the sound of the unsaid finally exhaling.

I shape my own genre for this blog. It’s the language—how I bare the truth, memory, and longing without apology and without prettiness.

"Is the genre my longing invented."

It’s the genre my longing invented. It’s the language only the heartbroken and unbreakable understand.

3. What This Is

This blog began as Notes for My Soulmate— what I thought were love letters to a stranger with my name tucked in their ribs.

But I don’t write love letters. I write soul letters.

"I don’t write love letters. I write soul letters."

This isn’t romanticism. This is reverence. This is grief—and it’s allowed here. This is want—and it’s welcome. This is rage. So much rage. And I let it live. This is also grace. And shadow. And presence.

Feral Poetics, as I live it, is where contradictions breathe. Hardness and softness. Ember and water. Truth that doesn’t ask permission.

4. Why I Still Write

I write for the wounded. For the ones who have healed—but still carry the marks. For the ones who haven’t yet found the shape of their pain.

I write for those told to whisper their wounds. For the ones afraid to make noise, to be left for bleeding, to be shamed for surviving.

I write to remember what couldn’t be spoken. Because each word lights the trail back to myself.

And if you’ve ever longed for someone who doesn’t know your name— this is for you.

"Truth that doesn’t ask permission."

5. Where the Fire Still Burns

Feral Poetics, as I live it, lives wherever the ache is holy. Where the unsaid stirs like wind through bone.

It’s more than a genre. It’s a vibration. A heartbeat. A home.

Here, the forest hums. The shadows shimmer. The fire glows warm and low.

This is where the empath comes to speak aloud. Where the forest spirit puts down roots in language. Where the magic in your skin is not denied—but named.

Welcome. The fire’s still burning. The forest remembers you.

"The forest remembers you."

This work is protected, not to gatekeep—but to honor the labor, the longing, and the lineage it carries. © 2025 Notesformysoulmate. All rights reserved.