🔮 protection spell no. 008: summon the logistical saints

by the power vested in burnout,
in broken furniture,
in babies on hips and bills unpaid—
i cast this spell.

not for brunch friends.
not for “omg let me know if you need anything” bitches
who vanish at the first sign of need.
not for the ones who hit "like" on your grief
but never hit your line.

this is a call to arms
for the women who show up
with a trunk full of Costco
and a drill set.

for the ones who don’t need backstory,
just the address.
the ones who bring diapers, snacks, and grace—
not questions.
not disclaimers.
not conditions.

👁‍🗨 i call in the ones who drive across state lines with a playlist and a plan.

👁‍🗨 the ones who hold your baby and your sanity at the same damn time.

👁‍🗨 the ones who see your kitchen empty and come back with groceries, not gossip.

👁‍🗨 the ones who take time off work to build the crib of your new life.

👁‍🗨 the ones who babysit your trauma, no tip required.

bless the ride-or-dies.
curse the convenience friends.
banish the flaky healers.
protect the real ones.
multiply them.

and if any false sister tries to sneak in—
may her phone always die in emergencies.
may her gas tank run dry when you’re stranded.
may her instagram captions rot before her loyalty matures.

this spell is blood-bound.
no half-ass energy allowed.
may every bitch who truly shows up
be blessed beyond imagination—
with soft landings,
late-night snacks,
and a coven that never asks for a sob story
before they pack the car.

i don’t need a village.
i need soldiers.
i need saints.
i need survival witches
with good credit and better boundaries.

so it is spoken.
so it is screamed.
so it fucking shall be.

🕯️🧃🧷🛠️🍼📦🧼✈️🪞🖤
amen, and pass the damn snacks.