Nata !

Bewitched-
Laufey

i don't forget.
the words spill from me like a flood,
like a prophecy I cannot escape.
Because to write is to remember,
to carve every ache into permanence,
to press my grief into paper
and call it art.

all

Images

Shopping

News

Web

Search Labs | non ai overview

about grief
i do not know when the warmth of morning
started feeling like an interrogation light,
it now stings and bites.when the laughter of strangers
began to sound like a language i could no longer speak.
grief clings to me like a second skin,
a shadow i did not ask for,
an echo that never fades.i wake up tired of carrying this weight,
but there is nowhere to set it down.
it follows me into bookstores and cafés,
sits beside me when i am quiet,
stirs in my chest when i try to sleep.i used to write about dreams,
now my pages bleed with ghosts.
i used to paint sunsets,
now my canvas knows only the color of loss.
i used to sing without thinking,
now every note aches in my throat,
like a prayer that will never be answered.tell me, when did love turn to labor?
when did joy become something i must earn?
when did the world shift beneath my feet,
leaving me stranded in a place that looks the same
but no longer feels like home?i do not know if grief is something i survive,
or something i simply become.

Mourning Routine
https://mourningroutine.com

Shades of Blue and Gray
i wake with my teeth clenched again—
rage, or the ghost of it,
settled somewhere between sleep and refusal.
morning drips in like something spilled,
unwanted, unasked.
light feels like trespass.another hour,
another breath dragged from me
like it, too, is done trying.
the air is heavy with the effort of staying.i wonder—
how many more nights must pass
before the silence learns my name?
how many more mornings
must i rise from this bed
that feels more like a half-filled grave?
the ceiling is still blank,
still cruel in its stillness.
the bunk presses against me
like it wants to remember
what it’s like to hold something broken.and the floor—
the floor is never floor,
just the memory of something solid
before it slipped through me.
i am not falling,
but i am not held.do they hear me?
the others who breathe beside me,
dream beside me—
do they stir at the sound of sorrow
or do they turn their backs
and let the dark decide what to keep?it’s been two years of
quiet conversations with the wall,
with the fan, with the moon—
none of them answer.
maybe they know better.
maybe i’ve always been alone
in this room built for six.

23

Mourning Routine
https://mourningroutine.com

the years i did not ask for
i did not plan to live past fifteen.
there was no future waiting for me,
no sixteen candles, no seventeenth summer,
just a quiet exit, a door left ajar.but here i am, in the stretched years,
in the time i never asked for,
counting breaths i never thought i’d take,
tracing roads i never thought i’d walk.i don’t know if i should thank God
for these borrowed hours, these unwanted days,
or if i should scream into the night,
rage against the sky that kept me here.i wonder if it would have been easier
if i had vanished when i meant to,
if the world would have spun the same,
if my name would have faded like a whisper.but instead, i exist in the in-between,
living, but not quite belonging.
some days, i think of all i could have been,
all the dreams that never took root,
all the ghosts of who i was meant to become.would it be better if i had it all?
if the world laid itself at my feet,
if my hands held everything i once longed for?
or would peace have only come
six feet under?but i am still here.
i do not know why.
and i do not know
if that is mercy or cruelty.

23

Mourning Routine
https://mourningroutine.com

twenty.
twenty years and i am still wandering.
as i blow the candle, i pray the wind
takes more than just the fire—
that it carries me away,
like dust, like a name forgotten in the wilderness.the tiramisu is sweet on my tongue,
but the aftertaste is bitter,
like regret, like prayers left unanswered.
i have so much rage creeping in my bones,
so much sorrow pressing on my chest,
so much loss carved into the lines of my hands.if God ever listens to His people,
let Him hear me now.
let Him hear my cries as He once heard Israel’s,
as He once listened to the wails of a nation
torn from its home,
sent to Babylon, exiled from promise,
left to lament in a foreign land.have You forgotten me, Lord,
as You did Jacob when he wrestled You in the dark?
have You renamed me suffering,
have You marked me with grief?
tell me, where is my Canaan?
where is the milk, where is the honey?
where is the land You swore would be mine?i am tired of wandering.
if You do not lead me home,
then let me go.
if You do not part the waters,
let them take me whole.

23

mourningroutine.co

For you

Following

Nata @mourningroutine · 1d

maybe I just have to understand
that I was never carved for love.
you named me unworthy once,
and I wore it like a sigil,
glowing faintly beneath the ribs.you offered half-light,
crumbs from a dream you never finished.
your mouth found mine
as if to silence the storm
it had summoned—
a fleeting mercy,
brief as breath.your hands spoke in forgotten dialects,
reading constellations on my skin.
you touched me
as if the world might shatter
if you let go—
as if devotion could be measured
in pressure and pulse—
and still,
you vanished into air.I keep the echo.
the room still holds its breath.
the sheets have learned your name.
even silence bends,
waiting for your ghost to pass through it.tell me,
how does something that felt like worship
turn into exile overnight?
how can a gaze that once held galaxies
empty itself so completely?you left hollows where language used to be.
you taught me that want
is a mirage in the desert—
the shimmer of water
that disappears
once it’s touched.perhaps I was only ever meant
to be your echo chamber—
the body that answers back,
the warmth that forgets its own origin,
the ache that hums beneath your absence.still, you will never know
what it is to live among your ruins—
to cough up dust shaped like your name,
to sleep beside the shadow of what never was,
to wear my own heart
as a haunting.I was never yours to keep,
but God—
I would have burned forever
just to keep you warm.

Nata @mourningroutine · 1d

who do I blame this to—this slow bruise of wanting,
this ache that threads itself
through the quiet hum of light,
pressing its thumb against my ribs
where once your steadiness lived.once,
your mouth found mine—
a fevered psalm, a brief salvation.
your arms were a storm’s eye,
tight with mercy,
and I believed—
for a breath, for an afterglow—
that I was made of your pulse.then morning came,
and you drifted through me
as if I were air made solid.
your eyes—
hollow vessels of forgetting,
your voice—
a blade dulled by restraint.
you passed,
and my body unlearned its language,
the one your hands had written
across its map of tremor and warmth.do you not remember—
the bedsheet folded like horizon,
creased with laughter,
a pale witness to our undoing?
do you not taste still
the cinnamon ghost of my candle,
its smoke trapped in your lungs,
the sweetness suspended,
as though time itself had held its breath?tell me, then—
what becomes of the hours,
when silence begins to grow teeth?
how do I unmake your name
when it hums between my molars,
a prayer disguised as ache?
why must you leave me
with this ruin—
this weight of almost,
this cathedral of hunger—
and nowhere holy enough
to lay it down?

Nata @mourningroutine · 1d

you mistook trembling for tenderness.
you built your excuses
into small altars of pity,
lit candles to your fear
and called it reason.if terror ruled your blood,
you should’ve never crossed
into my orbit.
I am sunfire—
you were always glass.
still, you stepped toward the blaze,
eyes half-closed,
pretending it would not burn.you cupped my light
with unsteady hands,
drank what you could
before the radiance spilled
down your throat—
sweet, endless,
merciless.
I warned you:
everything eternal devours.you called me an open book,
but when I unspooled myself—
spine cracked,
ink trembling like a wound—
you turned the page
before the truth could name you.you wanted the glow,
not the heat;
the bloom,
not the root.
you wanted my hands,
not the pulse inside them.
you wanted to taste worship
without believing in God.and now you flinch
when my name crosses the room,
as if sound itself could bruise you.
you walk with your head bowed low,
as though shadows could save you
from memory.but the sun does not grieve
what averts its gaze.
the river does not wait
for those who choke on abundance.
and the story you abandoned
will be read aloud
by steadier hands;
ones unafraid
to face the light
and call it love.

Nata @mourningroutine · 1y

You told me once
you wished you’d met me earlier—
as if time could undo consequence,
as if ten years back your bones
might have remembered softness,
your mouth unlearned its guard.
I held that wish like glass,
beautiful, brittle,
too sharp to cradle for long.Maybe another hour, another lifetime,
might have led you back
to the version of yourself that believed in light.
Or maybe that man had already vanished
long before I arrived,
and I was only late to the ruin.
Either way, the grief is the same:
you were given windows
and chose walls.
You mistook safety for silence.
You confused fear with wisdom.Still, I do not regret the warmth I gave you.
Every breath spent keeping you alive
was a fair trade—
an honest currency
for what my heart could hold.
If my tenderness met your carelessness,
that is not my sin to carry.
Let consequence do what it does best—
follow you home,
fill your lungs,
haunt you in the quiet hour.
I will not sculpt revenge;
I will let absence speak my part.
Let memory,
the teacher you refused,
finally have its say.To call you coward feels too small a word.
English fractures under the weight of us;
its syllables stumble,
its meanings collapse at the edges of pain.
I wish for sharper verbs,
for names that could carve the truth clean.
But this—language—is what we have,
thin skin between us,
traded like coins in a marketplace
that smells of old prayers.
We speak the same tongue
and refuse to use it
for the softest things; forgive me, stay, I am afraid.You made liberty your god
and called tenderness a crime.
I cannot rewrite that scripture for you.
But still—
I tell you plainly:
be braver.
Braver than your fear,
braver than the story
that tells you distance is dignity.
Be brave enough to love
without the promise of being loved back.And though my hands ache for justice,
though my mouth fills with unsaid curses,
I let you go with mercy.
Not because you deserve it,
but because I do.
Because I loved you,
and that love—
wild, reckless, holy—
was real.So I release you.
With a benediction.
With an ache.
With the small, stubborn grace
of someone who chose tenderness
over ruin.I loved you.
And I do not regret it.

mourningroutine · 1m

it’s true that our friendship doesn’t fix everything.
it doesn’t make the weight disappear,
doesn’t rewrite the past,
doesn’t silence the thoughts that keep me up at night.but i swear, i can’t be sad
when i say, “let’s get coffee,”
and you just say, “okay,” like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
like i am easy to say yes to.it’s impossible to hold onto the heaviness
when i’m laughing so hard my stomach aches,
when you show up at 11 p.m.
with my favorite cheesecake
because you just knew.i know now that staying up
doesn’t have to mean spiraling alone in the dark—
it can just be doing makeup at 3 a.m.,
giggling until the sun rises.
that calories are meant to be celebrated, not counted.
that fancy dinners aren’t just for couples,
and night drives don’t belong only to lovers.i don’t think i’ll ever say this to your face,
but you are a huge part of why i am still here.
why i am still trying.
i started believing in life again
the moment you walked back into mine.the trees are green again.
i pour milk and sugar into my coffee again.
because maybe life was never meant
to be swallowed bitter.

052303 I love you DIVA💜
mourningroutine @052303 i love u2 DIVA💜

☰ mourningroutine

u/mourningroutine 5h

white tulipsyou bound my hands,
then wondered why i bit back.
locked me in,
then cursed the voices that kept me company.
blindfolded me,
then asked why i feared the sun.you spoke of glory,
of pride,
of the joy i would wear like a crown.
but all you did was sign my life away,
shrink my years into fine print,
steal my breath and call it sacrifice.you took my teenage years,
my early twenties,
drowned me in dim-lit rooms,
pressed the weight of your fortune onto my ribs
until they cracked beneath you.
i am barely breathing.
i am barely alive.i hope you are ashamed.
ashamed that after all you have stolen,
all i have left to give
is bared teeth and a hollow chest.
you, who eat at tables built from bones,
who sleep soundly on beds lined with sorrow—
even for you, this is a new low.i did not know rage
until you threw me to the wolves,
left me in the pit to decay,
to learn the language of rot,
to count my days by the echoes of my own screams.but one day, you will fall.
and i will stand in the front row,
hands steady, eyes dry,
clapping as the ground swallows you whole.
i will throw flowers at your feet,
not out of kindness,
but because when you kneel,
it will be before God.and maybe, just maybe,
when He sees white tulips in your hands,
He will forgive you.but i never will.

u/mourningroutine 5h

white horse, red handsif i clench my jaw any tighter,
the bones will splinter,
the teeth will crack—
but you do not care, do you?to you, i am only a vessel,
a thing to be filled, emptied,
gnawed on with dull teeth,
because you have spent your years
biting at skulls,
grinding bone into dust,
laughing at the weight of unpaid hands
and the salt of dried tears.have i not given enough?
i am nothing but a torso now,
adrift in a sea you set aflame,
and still, you tell me to swim.but agony does not reach the ears
of those who sit on thrones
built from nameless backs.
blood does not stain the eyes
of those who watch from the hills,
high on white horses,
bow drawn, arrows ready
for those deemed unworthy.you shake hands with your own enemy
if it means your name
will be carved into foreign tongues,
preaching the word of god,
calling yourself an angel,
while your armor drips
with the blood of your own.look under your nails.
you have scraped the skin
of the very hands
that built your kingdom.

u/mourningroutine 5h

heavy is the crownyou, who were born in a castle,
who have never had to beg for a seat at the table,
who have never had to kneel unless it was for a crown,
tell me—
was it agony to wake in silk sheets,
to choose which wing to sleep in,
to decide which beast to slaughter for dinner?
was it unbearable to turn the world into your garden,
pluck fruit from the hands of starving mouths,
set fire to villages just to warm your bathwater?tell me,
was it agony to stretch your limbs beneath the sun,
to spend your days writing history in your own image,
spinning gold from breath alone,
painting your face into the sky
so that even god would mistake you for something holy?but tell me,
have you ever felt the weight of a shovel in your hands?
have you ever known the taste of dust thick in your throat?
have you ever watched the sun rise
just to curse it for bringing another day of hunger?maybe it is true that you will never touch the soil for labor,
but surely you will touch it
as i bury you with the maggots you call friends.because the sun does not shine forever,
and no man sits above the rest for long.

< Messages

MourningRoutine

mosaici am a mosaic of borrowed faces,
stitched together by places I do not belong to.
the world is vast, unfamiliar,
and i have no home.i am lost in a foreign land,
biting the hands that feed me,
pushing away what little i am given.
you do not know me—
because i do not know myself.meet me at dawn,
but do not expect the same person
who stood there yesterday.
i shift, i unravel,
i rebuild into something unrecognizable.i speak the language my mother cursed,
choke on my mother tongue
like it was never mine to keep.
i lose myself between words,
between what i mean
and what i can never say.i call my friends foes,
hold my enemies by the waist,
because love and war
have never felt that different.these lips do not pray anymore.
they do not beg.
they do not soften.
they demand.
they take.
they fight.

Until Thenfrom now on,
i will hold my gaze a little longer.
i will memorize the curve of your cheekbone,
the arch of your brow when you laugh,
the way your eyes crinkle like they’ve known joy
even in the midst of pain.i will watch
how your lips fold around jokes and names and goodbyes,
how your smile lives not only in your mouth
but in the quiet spaces around it—
in the lines life has carved from loving too much,
from staying, from leaving.these faces, these streets,
these rooms filled with familiar echoes—
they will fade.
soon, i will be somewhere new.
strangers will pass me like wind,
and i will carry only memories in my pockets.so let me learn you now,
in full.
let me trace you into the inside of my eyelids
so i might find you again
in dreams i won’t want to wake from.and when i do wake,
i will remember—
with love,
with ache,
with the kind of kindness
you only learn by leaving something beautiful behind.we will part,
and it will tear.
not gently, not cleanly.
it will feel like a rip through the ribcage.but i will look back
with adoration,
with soft hands,
with the kind of sorrow that doesn’t rot but blooms.because once,
you were home.
and now—
i am older.
i am ready to fly,
even if it means crying mid-air.but until then,
let me see you.
let me remember.
every laugh,
every sigh,
every word that ever made this place
a nest.

I Have Disowned My Mother TongueClaw at me, curse me,
call me a traitor, call me a backstabber,
say I have betrayed the blood in my veins.
But where were you
when the same language that was meant to hold me
became the very thing that tore me apart?
Where were you when it was used
not as a cradle, but a blade?Call me a snake,
say my tongue hisses in the dialect of the colonizers—
but my mother does not know
how to spell loathe or detest,
no one wounded me in this tongue—At fifteen, I met kindness in borrowed words,
in voices that spoke to me gently,
while my own people spat their vowels like venom,
while they stood on the shore
and watched me drown alone.No, I am not one of you anymore.
You cannot claim me, cannot pull me back,
cannot sew me into the fabric
I have already torn myself from.
I will not learn my parents’ dialects,
will not recite the vernaculars
of a home that never let me rest.I will let my mouth forget the bitter taste
of my country’s linguistics,
let my throat lose the ability to sing
in the language of my grandmothers.Let it fade,
let it slip into silence,
because I have learned that love
sounds different here,
in a tongue that never once
cut me open.

Drafts ★

Last month ⤵

[draft] (God)
(No subject)letters to God; from your beloved daughterTell me, Father,
did it wound You when I turned away,
when I let the night swallow me whole,
when I fled from the hands
that shaped me from dust and breath?
Did You grieve as I vanished into the shadows,
as if Your love was not enough
to keep me from drowning?For sin is stitched into my skin,
woven through my bones,
a weight I carry,
a stain I cannot wash away.
And yet—
You still call me by my name,
soft as dawn,
steady as the tide.With hands worn by mercy,
You lift me from the wreckage,
cradle me against Your chest,
dirtied and bloodied,
a child lost,
a child found.I have cursed You in the night,
shaken my fists at the sky,
placed the blame at Your feet—
and still, You fold the blankets over my shivering frame,
place warmth into my palms,
press a kiss to my forehead
as the storm howls beyond these walls.Tell me, Lord,
with all my ruin,
all my failures,
why do You still clothe me in light?
Why do You still whisper my name like a promise?
I do not understand—
but I kneel before You, grateful.

[draft] (God)
(No Subject)a daughter's blues is her Father's rage
Who am I to name beauty,
to decide what is worthy, what is not,
when You, the Creator,
have painted the earth with colors I will never understand?
Beneath You, the roses sing,
the doves twirl in the golden light,
the seas hum their endless hymn—
and yet, I stand before my own reflection,
a war raging in my bones,
a storm unraveling in my chest.Do You weep when I trace my flaws like scripture,
when I map my body with lines meant to disappear?
Do You ache when I wish to carve myself smaller,
to fold myself into something more bearable,
as if I was not molded by the hands
that shaped the stars?Tell me, Lord,
do You mourn when I curse the vessel You have given me,
when I cannot see what You see,
when I call myself unworthy
while You whisper my name with love?once again i confess
i do not understand;
how You could craft the mountains,
the rivers, the sky,
and still look upon me
as if I was just as divine.