Why J’Moris’s “Toxic Lovespell” Is Making Waves Today

When you release an album called Toxic Lovespell on Valentine’s Day, you’re clearly not buying what Hallmark’s selling. Hillsboro rapper J’Moris, already known for peeling back the curtain on Southern identity and personal chaos, has taken a blowtorch to the fantasy of love—and recorded what survived.

“This album is the raw, unrestrained version of me—the good, the bad, and the ugly,” he says. And you hear that. From the jump, Toxic Lovespell isn’t chasing hits. It’s trying to exorcise something. The beats, cooked up by Supamario Beatz, hit like old voicemails—warm and distorted, bleeding through the speaker. J’Moris’s voice floats over them, heavy and deliberate.

At times, the record feels more like a journal entry than an album. “Striving for perfection but falling short,” he confesses. But what makes it stick is the stillness he finds in that falling. The idea that embracing your damage might be the closest thing to healing. There’s no clean resolution, no tidy goodbye. The heartbreak lingers.

“I realized my imperfections are what make me unique,” he says, and you believe him because the songs don’t feel like performances—they feel like decisions. He doesn’t flinch from the contradiction: toxic but peaceful, chaotic but aware. He just builds a world where both can breathe.

You could try to pin this album to a genre, but it wouldn’t stick. It’s part slow-drip trap, part existential sermon, part internal monologue at 4AM. If Toxic Lovespell were a flower, it wouldn’t be a rose. Maybe a bruised magnolia. Something southern. Something that blooms even when it shouldn’t.

If love’s a spell, this album breaks it.