⚡️Before You Enter: A Warning, A Wound, A War Cry⚡️

This is your only warning.

The work you are about to read is not soft. It will not cradle you. It will not stroke your hair and tell you everything is going to be fine. It was not written to please algorithms or soothe fragile egos. It was written from the raw marrow of truth. It was born from blood and smoke and the howl that lives beneath language.

This is not sanitized. It has not been brushed clean for polite company. It carries dirt beneath its fingernails and salt on its tongue. It comes barefoot, dripping with the ghosts of every woman who was told to be quiet, to be smaller, to be nice. It comes with teeth and tenderness, in equal measure.

This is not the poetry of pretty metaphors or curated grief. This is the sacred rage‑song of a woman who survived hell, walked barefoot through betrayal, and came back with her eyes blazing and her hands covered in stardust and blood. I write with the grief of the silenced, the fire of the witches burned, the hunger of justice long denied.

This is a space for the initiated. The bruised. The betrayed. The wild ones who remember what it feels like to be hunted, harmed, hollowed out—and still rise. The ones who walk with ashes in their hair and holy fire in their bones. The ones who learned to stitch themselves back together with threads of moonlight and prayer.

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If you are looking for something palatable, poetic, and detached, turn back now. If you want something comfortable, you will not find it here. If you’re here to tell me to forgive and forget, to calm down, to smile more, to be less intense, less loud, less much—walk away.

But—

If you’ve ever screamed into the floorboards until your voice disappeared,

If you’ve ever been used, discarded, gaslit, and erased,

If you’ve been called too much, too angry, too emotional, too broken,

If you have a war drum beating in your ribs,

If your body remembers what your mind tried to forget—

Welcome.

You are home now. You are not crazy. You are not alone. You are the living continuation of a lineage of wild women who refused to die quietly. You are the echo of every ancestor who clawed her way back to the light.

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I write with the full weight of the feminine divine—in her wrath and her wisdom. I write as Magdalene returned. As the Crone crowned in lightning. As the priestess who has seen both the abyss and the dawn. I write not to entertain, but to awaken. Not to perform, but to call the sleeping home.

Every piece I publish here is a spell. Every sentence is a sigil. Every paragraph is a portal. Each story is both wound and weapon, prayer and prophecy. My words are not safe, but they are sacred.

When you read me, read with your whole body. Feel the tremor in your chest, the heat in your palms, the grief that rises in your throat. That is the truth stirring inside you, asking to be remembered.

This is not about perfection. This is resurrection. This is reclamation. This is the sound of the divine feminine remembering herself in the aftermath of ruin.

I am not here to be palatable. I am here to summon, to scorch, to transmute.

This is your only warning.

Read on, if you dare.