Chaos magick with a mother’s mercy and a crow’s accuracy.
(Scroll down for lyrics)
I love writing music because It shows me who I want to be, while showing who I’ve been.
This space is my grimoire in plain sight.
Mirror work, meltdown, magick — all braided into sound.
GORGEOUS was the first album, the scream, the first skin I shed.
This album comes with a trigger warning and lives in its own tab.
It covers sexual coercion, PTSD, abuse, and more.
FVNERAL is the burial: a double album with
27 tracks, 22 Reversed Major Arcana Tarot Cards
as ghost burials of false selves I once needed to survive.
(still being written)
Between them, I write single release songs —
rage and trauma, mirror work, grief rituals, protection spells, and anti–people-pleasing anthems. Some are about parenting and trying not to pass the storm down. Some are about chronic pain and teaching my body it’s finally safe. Others live in law of attraction, spirit animals and body-based magick—spell-songs for the ones who feel too much and need somewhere to put it.
Everything here was written because I needed it.
If you’re reading, maybe something in here needs you too.
My songs are written by me (a Scorpio with too many journals) and sung through Suno.
The songs below are mirrors. Pick the one that stares back.
Crow watches the gate.
keep the light on.
WHAT’S YOUR MARK? (The Ghost)
What’s Your Mark? is a mirror-song for the ones who smiled through survival. It’s about the bite behind “be good,” the flinch behind “be nice.” Every verse speaks the ghost you became to be kept. You weren’t born ashamed—you were trained. This is the body’s record. The rage beneath the praise. The addiction born from silence. You didn’t vanish. You adapted. Now the mark is glowing. And the mirror is calling you home.
Stop Hurting The Children (Our Little Secret) – Lyrics
I wrote this with shaking hands. These are blurred truths from people I love—made safe, but still burning. I’ve held this song inside for years. The Epstein trials cracked something open. This isn’t a headline. It’s a wound. It’s a prayer. It’s a scream for every kid who was told to stay quiet.
Crow - Lyrics
This one isn’t a song. It’s a spell. I wrote it for every part of me that never got the funeral, never got the scream. Crow is the witness. The mirror. The scream in sky-shape. She remembers what the world tried to forget. I gave her my ache. She gave it wings. If you’ve ever swallowed your truth to keep the peace—she’s circling for you.
Flame in a Paper House (For Brooklynn)
This is a vow song. A lyrical fire for Brooklynn—and every soft soul trained to dim their light. It’s grief turned to rhythm, silence turned to vow. For the ones who didn’t pull over. For the ache of loving what you couldn’t save. If you saw something sacred flicker out and still feel it burning in your ribs—this flame’s for you.
BECAUSE I SAID SO – Lyrics
This song is my reckoning. BECAUSE I SAID SO came from the gap between how I was showing up and who I wanted to be. It’s the sound of me catching myself mid-script, mid-yell, mid-trigger—and choosing something different. I didn’t write this from theory—I wrote it from the floor, holding the weight of my own voice.
MARROW – Lyrics For The Survivors
This blog holds the full lyrics and ritual spell for MARROW, a rap-metal exorcism of a ghost self born from pelvic shame, forced submission, and silent obedience. It names the flinch, maps the memory, and buries the ghost that once performed “yes” to survive. The body becomes the altar, the voice becomes the flame. Readers walk away with a scream in their palm and a ritual to reclaim their hips.
WHERE ARE THE MOTHERS – Lyrics
This blog holds the spell of a mother who chooses not to pass it down. I wrote it in the aftermath of a hard moment, with breath still shaking in my ribs. These lyrics track the pattern of rage, restraint, and repair—the sacred loop of staying present in fire without becoming it. I offer this for anyone who has ever stormed, returned, and chosen love with mud still on their boots.
I AM THE RAKE – Lyrics
This is what I wrote instead of screaming.
The rake moved what my mouth couldn’t say.
It dug through the grief I didn’t name—but still felt, still carried, still almost passed on.
It’s a rhythm for the ones who inherited the storm and chose to break the cycle with their body.
Not against the ones who came before—but for them.
For the love that was buried beneath duty.
For the softness that never got spoken.
I swing to clear space for that.
This is how I till the field and return with love.