Instagram story viewer> @mavviax> Posts

MVVX | HIDDEN WRITING

@mavviax

1.2K

followers

7750

following

⚢ 🪶 ᴏᴊɪʙᴡᴇ
ꜱᴄʀᴇᴇɴᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ | ʙʀᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛʀᴀᴛᴇɢɪꜱᴛ
⟡ BOOK LINKS BELOW

POSTS STORIES REELS TAGGED

taken in Atlanta, Georgia by @mavviax

8

1

3 days ago

by @mavviax

20

3

10 days ago

by @mavviax

50

4

a month ago

Prêtresse indigène taken in Mustache hookah bar by @mavviax

11

2

2 months ago

The miracle does not knock.
It arrives like rain on a roof you forgot was leaking,
like music through a wall you thought was silence.
It was already stitched into the hours
when you were busy living.
You think nothing is changing—
but the roots have been moving underground.
The stars have already agreed.
You are not waiting.
You are being readied.
And the most beautiful part?
A few days before your whole life shifts,
you won’t feel any different by @mavviax

66

3

2 months ago

MVP 🖊️ by @mavviax

26

2

3 months ago

For the Woman Who Cannot Be Replaced
She is not a shadow of another’s dream,
but the original wound from which all imitations bleed
vanity.
Her grace is not polite—
it is consequence.
She does not enter—she imposes.
Her presence is an editorial on existence,
a correction to the grammar of lesser lives
who dared to define her without ever knowing her.
She is not virtuous by design,
but by defiance.
Not because she fits the mold—
but because she shattered it
and used the fragments as her ink The next one—who tries to mimic her cadence—
will discover:
style without depth is embroidery on air.
She cannot be replaced,
because she was never built to be possessed.
She is a singular—
and singularities do not occur twice.
Her elegance is not in affectation,
but in the way she withholds
what others flaunt for crumbs.
What she offers cannot be taken—
only earned through the ruin of one’s former ignorance.
She is not kind the way the world requests.
She is exacting.
And it is this exactness that makes one kneel,
not from shame—but from the unbearable weight of recognition by @mavviax

43

3

3 months ago

La Maison des Mots by @mavviax

45

6

3 months ago

Thirty-three on July 10th, and I find myself less interested in celebration than in excavation — what does it mean to arrive somewhere, finally, after circling it for so long?

I have lost a lover and learned that grief is not the opposite of love but its continuation in a different register. I have known poverty intimately enough to understand how scarcity reorganizes the architecture of a mind — how it teaches you to hold things, and people, with a grip that takes years to loosen. I have tasted success and discovered, somewhat humbling, that it cannot perform the labor of healing; it can only fund the search for it. I have lost my health and watched my body renegotiate its terms with me, then return — not the same, but willing. I have felt desire so total it dissolved my edges, and I have felt its absence so completely I wondered if I’d ever feel anything again. Both, I’ve come to understand, were forms of intelligence. The body knows when to want and when to rest from wanting.

I descend from a line of indigenous women who were never permitted the luxury of falling apart, and I think I inherited their architecture without fully understanding what it cost them to build it. It is a peculiar thing, being perceived through so many different lenses — strong, soft, mysterious, too much, not enough — while privately holding a self that doesn’t require any of those descriptions to feel coherent. Perception is a story other people tell about you. Identity is the quieter sentence you keep writing alone. taken in Atlanta, Georgia by @mavviax

100

19

3 months ago

taken in Atlanta, Georgia by @mavviax

26

5

8 months ago

she came to me
when the world shattered her.

She placed her devastation in my hands.
Trusted me with her most fragile truths.
Rested inside my love
like a sanctuary she would never inhabit.

She gave me her interior.
Not her life.

I know she loved me.
But love without arrival
is a wound that never closes.

She kept parts of her world hidden —
realities sharp enough to cut,
storms she entered alone,
darkness she would not let touch me.

She protected me.

Yes.
That is also true.

She stood between me and certain ruin.
She carried what might have broken me.
She loved me carefully.
She loved me from a distance.

And distance can feel like mercy.
Distance can also feel like abandonment.

Both are true.
Both live here.

What do you call a love
that shelters you
but never stays?

What do you call devotion
that has nowhere to rest?

I carry tenderness for her.
I carry rage beside it.

They do not cancel each other.
They coexist.

And now —

there is no arrival left to wait for.
No explanation coming.
No final turning toward me.

So I grieve twice —
the woman I loved,
and the life our love never entered.

And somewhere inside me
a question still echoes:

How much of a heart
must be given
before it is finally received?
#writer taken in Atlanta, Georgia by @mavviax

49

0

8 months ago

#writer #writersofinstagram #quotestoliveby #darkfeminineenergy #author #mvvxwriting #meme #memesdaily taken in Atlanta, Georgia by @mavviax

10

1

a year ago