🕯️ protection spell no. 009: pretty, private, protected ✨
by the power of deadbolts, duct tape,
borrowed wi-fi, do not disturb, and a full tank—
i cast this spell.
not for slow-ass drivers.
not for “drop a pin” detectives.
not for homies who love a crisis
more than a car seat.
🕯️ this is for the silent exits.
🕯️ the screenshot bitches.
🕯️ the women who know a fucking go-bag
by significance, not by label.
🕯️ this is for the fugitives with diaper bags.
the bitches who can change a tire in the rain,
who’ve memorized every gas station with cameras and clean fucking bathrooms.
the ones who learned early that safety isn’t given, it’s stolen the fuck back.
👁🗨 i call in the saints of silent exits—no door slams, no status updates.
👁🗨 the route witches who run three maps and no witnesses.
👁🗨 the ones who know the weight of a blank stare without asking,
and the sound of an engine that starts first try.
👁🗨 the guardians who rock babies while loading ammo—emotional or otherwise.
👁🗨 the dog who’s been trained to recognize bad energy before it knocks.
may false friends’ screenshots glitch.
may loose lips taste rust.
may anyone chasing my trail
find only dead ends, bad cell service,
and a pissed-off gas station clerk with my story fucking memorized.
🧿 bless the ones who show up in hoodies, no questions.
🧿 curse the besties who “accidentally” tag your location—
🧿 may their accounts be shadowbanned into oblivion.
🧿 banish the ones who treat survival like content—
may their likes dry up like their loyalty.
this sanctuary runs on fucking rules:
we move in silence.
we speak in code.
we post after the dust settles,
and sometimes not at all.
this spell is blood-bound and GPS-proof.
it smells like bleach, coffee, and the inside of a locked car at dawn.
it lives in the space between survival and revenge.
multiply my protectors.
strip power from my traitors.
cloak the path.
clear the way.
so it is spoken.
so it is driven.
so it fucking shall be.
🕯️
