PATIENT: STEPHANIE M. WYTOVICH
LOCATION: WARD C, VIOLENT WOMEN
DIAGNOSIS: FEMME FATALE
Welcome to my madhouse, my asylum of pain and pleasure, fact and fiction, hysteria and mourning. Here you will find the latest updates in the psychological autopsies (or books) that I've been performing on myself (or writing) over the past couple of years with the help of my creative, and often times less-than sane, muses.
People ask me all the time what poetry is and what my work in horror means, and to me, it’s always been about survival. I write poetry because I love the form—I love the raw, gritty, intensity of the line, and appreciate the silence and the scream of white space—but I write because it lets me breathe and heal, and most importantly, when I finish a piece, it reminds me that some fears and tortures can end, and that there’s always a new beginning around the corner.
I chose horror as a genre for a lot of the same reasons that I chose poetry as my main art form: it’s guttural, it’s honest, and it doesn’t hold back. It lets you see how monsters grow and it shows you why sympathy for the devil exists. Horror isn’t black and white, and neither is fiction—it’s a gray area, and it makes you question everything you thought you knew was an absolute: your religion, your morals, your heart. Horror doesn’t make me pick—it lets me explore, and it doesn’t judge me if my choices are less than what most people consider beautiful.
So come, stay. Find a cell and relax. In these halls are nurses, widows, madams, and demons. They walk the wards of my imagination and they'll guide you through insanity and grief, through a crisis of faith and an obsession with lust.
But be careful.
My women are here for a reason.
And my god, do they love to hear you scream.