I used to trust anything I could

count,

polish,

or stack.

Until sacred matter 
turned to scattered ash.



They worship the shimmer

but never ask the origin,

whether the soil bled centuries of tears

so they could strip her altar

for their own adornment.



Years and years of abuse.

The earth felt it all.

Their crowns turned to rust

while she remembered the fall.



They never heard the echo,

only the sparkle in their eyes.

I asked if they felt it.

They said:

There’s no proof. You tell lies.



So we reap what we sow.

Reaching for the roots

lost long ago.

Waiting for her to hold the miracle 
once more.



But waiting took too long.

So I buried my hands in the soil

and felt God exhale.

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Witchy is the echo of the forest inside a human voice.

It’s the way hands remember the shape of things before they are made.

It’s what happens when silence becomes spell, and spell becomes bone.

It is the ability to stir the unseen with a glance,

to braid the mundane with the mythic,

to walk into a room and realign the air.

Witchy is the salt that never forgets the sea.

The flame that bends but doesn’t beg.

It is not what you wear, but how the wind listens to you.

Not what you say, but how the mirror answers back.

Witchy is sovereign softness,

the art of knowing when to touch, and when to vanish.

A rhythm.

A return.

A remembering.

Field notes from the liminal space between here and elsewhere.

𓁻

No one teaches you how time really works.

Not the way it bends.

Not the way it listens.

Not the way it opens when something in you remembers the right shape.

This book was born from an inquiry into the nature of matter. Not just what it is, but what moves it.

The energetics behind space and time hold the keys: to the order beneath chaos, and the quiet structure inside stillness.

It arrived the way all true things do; out of order, buzzing, humming, already in the field of awareness.

Inside are fragments of the original architecture: notes, cues, strange mechanics, soft doorways, and the kind of things people only write down once in a zap of clarity betwixt memories and happenings.

It won’t tell you what to believe. It won’t ask you to become anything.

It simply shows you the places where reality thins and the soft pulse underneath the fabric of it all begins to reveal truth.

Nothing more, nothing less.

For those who’ve felt the clock hiccup. Or the room warp ever so slightly. Or the silence stretch in a way that made you wonder if you were alone...

This is your call.

It is not a spell. Nor a ritual. Not a technique. Perhaps nothing yet, simply a memory returning.

Open it as it was written;

slowly,

slowly,

slowly.

Love,

Ines

꩜

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Format

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Length

36 pages

Price

$33

These wings

carry light,

melt gold,

toil, trouble,

spin and mold.

These wings

are an altar

so you never falter

in the trembling space of altered states.

Your soul arrives and salts her

wounds,

wombs,

and tombs.

She evacuates the rooms carved in daylight,

prayed over in nightfall temples—

doomed, but unscorned

until she abandons the clutch

and instead allows the gentle,

angelic

touch

to carve her once more.

Golden tresses thread her through time,

rising,

fifty feet tall,

unencumbered by what is to come,

because beneath the surface

hums a hum

hum

hum.

Remember your name.

Remember your origin.

Remember the battle

you will forge again.

And what remains

is a crystallized wing—

frozen droplets of time

melting across the icecaps

of a land so muted,

waiting,

waiting,

waiting

for the frost to loosen

and turn itself

to liquid

once more.

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Is she womb-expanding, love-enhancing porn to help you deal with life?

Like creating a body,

a brain,

a soul

is just a side effect,

a highlight

of being human, right?

A mother.

A wife.

She soothes your soul and keeps your secrets out of sight.

It’s her job, her duty, her pleasure

to pull you from the depths, right?

While your ambition sparks her ammunition,

she brings light into your darkest renditions.

But pardon my oversight

I’m too busy transcending black and white,

falling into gray matter to feed my appetite.

So I write with a whimper and go out with a bang,

strumming my fingers, feeling your pain,

freeing your mind so you can stay sane,

making sure you remember your rights.

I know. You’re right.

So I write.

Not fight,

flight,

or freeze.

I release the unseen,

confess the lessons,

until you see me,

me,

in the monotony of existence.

And delighting in intoxicated talk is exhausting,

like having one key and forty locks,

or counting clocks

instead of minutes that pass.

They say, “Know yourself, girl.”

“Be true to yourself, girl.”

Then call me witch

for dodging the tricks of the world,

for escaping hungry foxes

that feast on the softest.

Like a false prophet, I’m full of paradoxes;

how being free isn’t really free,

and looking back,

it was all a dream.

Digging deep in drowning waters,

scaling walls of shattered matter

on the cusp of remembrance I wonder:

Is this ecstasy or eternity?

I craft irony from heresy,

a felony to the enemy

of my mind’s ability

to protect me from the unseen.

I decorate time like melody.

Anyway,

it was just a lesson,

not a life sentence.

A self crystallized in transcendence.

To be or not to be;

the question.

To live thrice and die once;

the essence.

But where do I look to really see?

And where are you;

in me?

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dropped all the way down.

Found the light,

and then turned around.

I’ve seen the destruction,

the thirst for the fall,

I’ve swam with the sharks,

I’ve seen it all.

Swimming, swimming,

back toward the shore.

When the heart beats —

I dive for more.

The one who stirs your hidden beasts?

She butters your bread,

weaves your beads,

as you fall to your knees like a priest.

Her many eyes beam bright, cutting through glass,

a smile so sweet it breaks the past.

The only one of her kind

for miles and miles,

her deep roots reflected in the mirror of your restless mind.

We stroke her bark,

the soft, bristled skin of stars

and feel the spark that hums beneath her scars.

“Return,” she sings, “to whence you came.”

Upon her moss-green altar she waits,

slipping secrets from the edge once again,

like honey

into

your

thirsty

mouth.

But only when you’re tamed.

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found things

wild things

soft things,

upon the endless altar of becoming.

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