.⋆ ♱ ⋆.

𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔦 𝔡𝔬 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱,

𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔢

. 𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆༺ ♱ ༻⋆.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Hello Beloveds, I’m Raye ✭

A little about me:

𓉸ྀི she/her pronouns

𓉸ྀི i’m a Leo

𓉸ྀི Canadian

𓉸ྀི i’m a writer/poet, also a visual artist/photographer

𓉸ྀི i love visual arts, photography, books, mixed media, fashion, and different aesthetics (particularly witchy, hippie, gothic/canadian gothic/southern gothic)

𓉸ྀི i’m a huge fan of Ethel Cain, Nicole Dollanganger, Lana Del Rey, Midwife, The Neighbourhood, and The Cure (big inspirations for my writing)

𓉸ྀི some of my favourite movies/tv shows are Nosferatu (2024), The Crow (1994), Midsommar, Girl Interrupted, The Black Phone movies, the IT movies, Carrie, The Virgin Suicides, The Craft, The OA, AHS, Sharp Objects, and Stranger Things

𓉸ྀི in my free time when i’m not writing i like to cry, take photos, girl blog, read, make jewelry, read tarot cards, crystal shop, roam cemeteries, and haunt abandoned places

𝔟𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲, 𝔤𝔦𝔯𝔩.

𝔦 𝔥𝔬𝔭𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔢𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔭𝔲𝔯𝔤𝔞𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔶.

Author Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/rayehalabuzawriter?igsh=YXQzaXM0eGYyajY4&utm_source=qr

Photography Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/rotinmycore?igsh=MXZteG9hZmthcjgxYQ%3D%3D&utm_source=qr

But then I think of it on and on

And realize

Have I ever really known how to love?

Love is only doing what someone else wants

Love is being quiet.

Love is being over-aware.

Love is growing your sense of smell

And when the sour scent of anger is in the air

You bury yourself before they bury you.

I do things on my own

I tell them it’s because I like being alone

And I do

But then another part of me wonders

Do I only say that as a shield?

Do I say I like being on my own so they think this is a choice instead of something sad and lonely?

Am I sad and lonely?

I tell myself no

But is that shield still up

Even when I’m looking in the mirror?

I think the shield has become my skin

It’s not as easily ripped off

Unless I want to start digging

But I’m afraid of what will come up if I do.

The bones I’ve hidden

My feelings the bodies that rot inside me

They’re not at rest

They scream

Only for me to silence them.

Rip their vocal cords out

Tell them I’m too old for these games

When I’ve been too old since the day I turned fifteen

And they all moved on.

I look at people on the street and wonder if I can hold that kind of love

The kind that sparkles in their eyes

The kind that brightens the sky

But when I try it

Everything goes dark.

Black clouds roll in

Thunder in my heart

Lightning my rage that strikes the trees

And crashes down on my hollow house once lively

Now only haunting in death.

— Mother of Rot I call to you. Was I destined for this life, or was this something I brought on myself. Am I unlovable, are there spores in my touch? Is that why everything I’ve ever loved dies?

Sometimes I think it isn't real.

To wrap a hand around my heart

And threaten me with something called love that I've never known.

I don't like change

It never sits right

Like a lump that gathers at my throat

Clinging with claws that scratch out my voice

And never wants to let go.

But I don't think I want to let it go even if I could.

It lets me nestle in its chest

Cover my ears

Bury my face in comfort and safety.

I crave what i know

I crave what is safe.

Like the feeling of grief that I've heard some despise

But it's warm in the most unloving way

But that is the only love I've received

And that is the only thing I know how to digest.

Wrapping me in a type of sorrow like a wool blanket that only scratches skin

But at least I am sheltered.

So I cannot complain

When I have something others would kill for.

I cannot complain about the carpet burn

When we have carpets instead of molding floor.

I cannot complain about the scratches from warmth

When i have warmth to hold.

I cannot complain about family

When I have a family in which owns me.

I cannot complain about the sour food

When I have food along the rusted stove.

I cannot complain about this rodent house

When I have a house to call my own.

And i cannot complain about the idea of love

Which has only ever been that

An idea

When I at least know the vocabulary

And at least I know how it's supposed to feel.

Because it is cold

And is it lone

And it will cry at your door at 3 in the morning