Tarot spread page of cups, knight of hazards, the devil, justice, five of swords, two of swords. Deck used Zombie Tarot.

You tried honestly, with the soft hands of something new, young joy trembling at the edge of becoming. You felt it, didn’t you? And it scared you. So you reached for locks, for familiar walls, for the well-worn grooves of old patterns that fit like second skin. Comfortable poison. Sweet on the tongue, slow in the bloodstream. You told yourself it was safer there. But inside you have been wrestling. Truth against habit, hunger against fear, two wolves circling the same fire and calling it survival. You thought the danger was out there, in their hands, their words, their leaving. 1/2

But the sharpest edge has always lived inside. You have been fighting shadows cast by your own light swinging outward when the war was inward all along. And you could win this. Not by force. Not by armor. But by removing the blindfold you tied yourself. By seeing clearly, brutally, tenderly that this has always been about you, your choices, your fears, your refusal and your power. Until then, the wheel keeps turning, the same storm, different sky. But the moment you look really look everything begins to shift. 2/2

Sundays reflection:
You tried honestly,
with the soft hands of something new,
young joy trembling at the edge of becoming.
You felt it, didn’t you?
And it scared you.
#tarot #collectivereading #witchcraft

Pineapple on pizza?

Between the Numbers They tell us one in four like a clean division, like pain lines up politely to be counted. But I have seen numbers bleed. I have seen them shrink themselves to fit inside a form, tick a box that says incident instead of what happened to me. How many never knock on the door of being counted? How many stand outside it with shaking hands, already rehearsing disbelief? How many learned silence before they learned the word no? How many were taught that confusion isn’t violence, that love can take without asking? How many stories dissolve before language finds them? How many bodies remember what the mind edits into something safer to carry? There are women walking around with trauma they never named touches filed under uncertain, coercion dressed up as compromise, a night they call a mistake instead of what it was. 1/2

Tell me where do they go in your statistics? Where do the dismissed live? The doubted? The ones who reported and were filed away like paperwork that evaporates? Where do the numbers hold the weight of being ignored? You say one in four as if it is finite. But I have seen the margins wide, hungry, filled with everything we couldn’t prove, wouldn’t say, didn’t yet understand. The truth does not sit neatly in a fraction. It echoes in what is missing. It multiplies in the dark. And somewhere between what is counted and what is carried the real number waits, unspoken, unmeasured, still rising. 2/2

Between the Numbers

They tell us
one in four
like a clean division,
like pain lines up politely
to be counted.
But I have seen numbers bleed.
I have seen them
shrink themselves
to fit inside a form,
tick a box that says incident
instead of what happened to me.
#poetry

Between the Numbers They tell us one in four like a clean division, like pain lines up politely to be counted. But I have seen numbers bleed. I have seen them shrink themselves to fit inside a form, tick a box that says incident instead of what happened to me. How many never knock on the door of being counted? How many stand outside it with shaking hands, already rehearsing disbelief? How many learned silence before they learned the word no? How many were taught that confusion isn’t violence, that love can take without asking? How many stories dissolve before language finds them? How many bodies remember what the mind edits into something safer to carry? There are women walking around with trauma they never named touches filed under uncertain, coercion dressed up as compromise, a night they call a mistake instead of what it was. 1/2

Tell me where do they go in your statistics? Where do the dismissed live? The doubted? The ones who reported and were filed away like paperwork that evaporates? Where do the numbers hold the weight of being ignored? You say one in four as if it is finite. But I have seen the margins wide, hungry, filled with everything we couldn’t prove, wouldn’t say, didn’t yet understand. The truth does not sit neatly in a fraction. It echoes in what is missing. It multiplies in the dark. And somewhere between what is counted and what is carried the real number waits, unspoken, unmeasured, still rising. 2/2

Between the Numbers

They tell us
one in four
like a clean division,
like pain lines up politely
to be counted.
But I have seen numbers bleed.
I have seen them
shrink themselves
to fit inside a form,
tick a box that says incident
instead of what happened to me.
#poetry

And the world will call it anything but what it is we have come to expect it. We know the system is working exactly as intended. They will find fault with the victims. They will erase the predators names. They will question why women stayed. The system is set up to fail them en mass and instead protect “promising futures” If she’s not willing to give up everything to stand in her truth knowing she will lose anyway. She must be lying. They will call it misunderstanding, a mistake, boys being— No.

62 million.

And the world
will call it anything but what it is
we have come to expect it.
We know the system is working exactly as intended.
They will find fault with the victims.
They will erase the predators names.
They will question why women stayed.
#62million

I’ve been wondering what was going on I thought it just might be my feed.

And the world will call it anything but what it is we have come to expect it. We know the system is working exactly as intended. They will find fault with the victims. They will erase the predators names. They will question why women stayed. The system is set up to fail them en mass and instead protect “promising futures” If she’s not willing to give up everything to stand in her truth knowing she will lose anyway. She must be lying. They will call it misunderstanding, a mistake, boys being— No.

62 million.

And the world
will call it anything but what it is
we have come to expect it.
We know the system is working exactly as intended.
They will find fault with the victims.
They will erase the predators names.
They will question why women stayed.
#62million

The system is working exactly as intended and must be dismantled.

She fell back to the earth not as a failure but as a return. Above her, the sky circled with her watchers dark-winged keepers of endings, misnamed as ugly scorned for scavenging what appears as worthless, by mouths that do not fear decay. Vultures ride the invisible, they read the language of death as opportunity, how they descend in service. They do not kill. They do not rush. They wait until the world has finished breaking something and then they come to make sure nothing is wasted. 1/2

This is their beauty not the kind that begs to be touched, but the kind that refuses to turn away. Feathers like ink against a sky too bright to be honest. They came for her as witnesses as metaphors. Life took her softness first then her beauty, the parts she offered the world that were never returned. And what remained was not pretty. This is the secret no one teaches some forms of beauty are designed to be given away. Not to be consumed but to be transformed so that even in falling, even in endings, something sacred stays refusing to be lost. The vultures rose, heavy with what she no longer needed, turning ruin into rebirth. And she she did not disappear. She became in the quiet, with the breath of things that dare to begin again. She fell back to the earth Transformed. 2/2

Lady of the Vultures

She fell back to the earth
not as a failure
but as a return.
Above her,
the sky circled with her watchers
dark-winged keepers of endings,
misnamed as ugly
scorned for scavenging what appears as worthless,
by mouths that do not fear decay.
Vultures…
#poetry #myths

In the basement of my heart trying to secure the foundations.

I’ve experienced this. One day it dawned on me that my parents were never going to be the people I needed them to be and then let them go. But I could be that person hell I am that person.

For the Women Who Conquer the Dark We gather where the night feels thickest, where shadows press in like warnings, where every sound carries weight. We do not pretend the fear isn’t real. We name it. We taste it in the back of our throats. We feel it coil in our bellies, pierce our hearts. But we are not alone in it. We are the ones who learned. Keys between fingers, intuition sharpened to a blade, eyes that see what others refuse to see. We are the daughters of women who survived. The granddaughters of silence that found courage. The bloodline of still here fucker. Tonight, we do not shrink. We gather. In the quiet spaces, This is ours. We bring back our ferocious howls the ones buried in our throats, the ones taught to be swallowed. Not tonight. 1/2

Tonight, we let them rise. A chorus. A warning. A remembering of who we are. We are the ones who hold each other when the world feels like it’s circling. We are the collective that does not break. We teach children to call the mother because we know no one else will come. There is something older than fear moving through us. Something that remembers we are the fire, the force. Our voices without permission, but within our power, our reclamation. We call that power home. We call each other forward. And when the night presses in, we do not disappear. We rise together, unhidden, unquiet, and we roar. 2/2

For the Women Who Conquer the Dark

We gather where the night feels thickest,
where shadows press in like warnings,
where every sound carries weight.
We do not pretend the fear isn’t real.
We name it.
We taste it in the back of our throats.

#poetry #witchcraft

Tarot spread 4 swords, 9 wands, 3 wands, 2 wands, reversed king wands, king of cups.

You remember that version like a place you keep trying to return to through the noise. But somewhere in the chaos you folded yourself smaller, softened your edges, poured your fire into a container that was never meant to hold you but snuff you out. You made yourself easier to keep, easier to love and lost the shape of you. That shadow sits heavy in your chest marked with the charred remains of your fire almost extinguished. Burnout has a name, and it sounds a lot like grief but you are resilient and stronger than the suffocation you survived. There is no going back. Only forward, through the ache, the regret the grief until you rekindle yourself again. That spark never leaves.

Rekindle.

You remember that version
like a place you keep trying to return to
through the noise.
But somewhere in the chaos
you folded yourself smaller,
softened your edges,
poured your fire into a container
that was never meant to hold you
but snuff you out.
#tarot #collective #poetry

But pain is not the destination.

Pain is the map trauma is the teacher you can’t break what’s already been shattered and someone who has learned how to use those pieces to heal in such a way that turns every hurt into strength you never saw coming.
#trauma #survivor

Tarot card spread 7 pentacles,10 swords, hermit reversed, knight of wands, justice reversed, 5 of cups.

Life is not fair. You tended you toiled You built a life you were beginning to love. Until the ending came not like a door closing, but like a blade laid carefully along the spine of trust. Ten times over it pierced not just the body, but every promise you ever believed would hold. That soil was void of nourishment a lost cause No matter how much you tried. Now you walk away, turning inward but not for wisdom no lantern, no quiet knowing just back to shadows. 1/2

Solitude becomes your hiding place and you need to hear yourself without the noise of everyday. There’s something restless A voice that says Run! Not heal not understand just move. Truth sits crooked on the scales. What was fair is no longer recognizable. And you know it. That’s the worst part. So you focus on the loss cup by kicked over cup staring into the emptiness as if grief might fill itself Behind, something still stands. But you are not ready to turn around. Not yet and that’s ok. 2/2

Collective tarot take what resonates.

Life is not fair.

You tended you toiled
You built a life you were beginning to love.
Until the ending came
not like a door closing,
but like a blade
laid carefully along the spine
of trust.
#tarot #poetry

Somedays I want to say fuck it and relapse too bad today is Friday and someday never seems to come.

#recovery #addiction

You are enough even when the world doesn’t reciprocate, even when your hands reach out and come back holding only air. Even when you gave like a river that didn’t know restraint clear, constant, believing thirst would mean gratitude. You learned then Some mouths do not say thank you, only more. And still that does not make your giving wrong. It makes your boundaries necessary. You are enough even when you begin to close the floodgates, even when your “yes” becomes something chosen instead of automatic. Boundaries feel like breaking a spell you were taught to keep the one where you disappear so others can feel full. You are not here to be emptied in the name of love. You are here to be met. That is the moment you stop being consumed and start being known. You are enough.

You are enough
even when the world doesn’t reciprocate,
even when your hands reach out
and come back holding only air.
Even when you gave
like a river that didn’t know restraint
clear, constant,
believing thirst would mean gratitude.
#poetry

The most powerful person in the room is the one who needs nothing. They do not reach. They do not wait to be named, to be lifted, to be kept. Approval does not steady them. Being chosen does not define them. They have already stood in the quiet absence and did not disappear. They turned inward where the noise once begged, and made a home no one else could enter or evict. Because the only one they truly needed was themselves.

The most powerful person in the room
is the one who needs nothing.
They do not reach.
#poetry

The most powerful person in the room is the one who needs nothing. They do not reach. They do not wait to be named, to be lifted, to be kept. Approval does not steady them. Being chosen does not define them. They have already stood in the quiet absence and did not disappear. They turned inward where the noise once begged, and made a home no one else could enter or evict. Because the only one they truly needed was themselves.

The most powerful person in the room
is the one who needs nothing.
They do not reach.
#poetry

Destruction of the patriarchy but only if it’s on your way.

Ooofff I’ve done that instant regret hugs to you.

Most people are not afraid of dying,
they are afraid they never lived.

You are enough even when the world doesn’t reciprocate, even when your hands reach out and come back holding only air. Even when you gave like a river that didn’t know restraint clear, constant, believing thirst would mean gratitude. You learned then Some mouths do not say thank you, only more. And still that does not make your giving wrong. It makes your boundaries necessary. You are enough even when you begin to close the floodgates, even when your “yes” becomes something chosen instead of automatic. Boundaries feel like breaking a spell you were taught to keep the one where you disappear so others can feel full. You are not here to be emptied in the name of love. You are here to be met. That is the moment you stop being consumed and start being known. You are enough.

You are enough
even when the world doesn’t reciprocate,
even when your hands reach out
and come back holding only air.
Even when you gave
like a river that didn’t know restraint
clear, constant,
believing thirst would mean gratitude.
#poetry

I want to be heard without the risk of sound, without the fragile bridge of words that once collapsed beneath me. The last time I spoke, I offered something soft not even everything, just the truth shaped gently: I need you. And you left the silence had more loyalty and it stayed. So now I keep quiet. Not out of spite, not to punish, not to make you guess but because I remember what abandonment sounds like echoing back.

I want to be heard
without the risk of sound,
without the fragile bridge of words
that once collapsed beneath me.
The last time I spoke,
I offered something soft
not even everything,
just the truth shaped gently:
I need you.
#poetry #Ephemeral

Happy to! DM me your availability and I’ll work something out. I’m available anytime tomorrow pretty much. Otherwise we can find time I’m sure.

That is beautiful💕

I do love reading for others. If you were ever curious I’d be happy to read for you *entertainment purposes only* 😉

I do readings with tarot sometimes. The cards become a prompt to inspire poetry I’m glad you liked it.

Three cards laid like a sentence. It is a blindfold tied in fear, arms caught in the geometry of surrender, swords pinning truths exposure with fragility laid bare. You learned to freeze there trapped, stillness felt safer than choosing wrong in a room full of sharp opinions. Then collapse, as care. A body horizontal with truth, finally un-performing. No audience, no armor, just the quiet negotiation between breath and memory. This is where the nervous system writes its apology to itself. Where you unhook every blade that pinned you. When you rise a hand rises from the dust not empty, not begging, but offering. A coin like a sun you can actually hold. Not illusion. Not survival. Something real enough to build a life on.

Three cards laid like a sentence.
It is a blindfold tied in fear,
arms caught in the geometry of surrender,
swords pinning truths exposure
with fragility laid bare.
#poetry #tarot