When Valentine’s Day, 2025 arrived, J’Moris dropped Toxic Lovespell—an album that feels less like a love letter and more like an invitation to dark rooms, raw confessions, and the unspoken bargains we make with ourselves and others. From the opening “Therapeutic Release” to the closing strains of “Outcast,” this is not pop romance — it’s a crooked, beautiful odyssey through heartbreak, self-worth, and the myths we tell ourselves to survive.
The album wastes no time pulling you in. A therapist’s voice ushers you into “Therapeutic Release,” a quiet prologue that cracks open the chest of what’s to come. That framing sets the tone: this is therapy you can listen to. J’Moris doesn’t just sing or rap about pain, he telegraphs the weight of it, giving it room to breathe.
That contrast becomes the engine of Toxic Lovespell. On tracks like “Ice Cream,” he balances sultry melodies with gritty confessions, weaving in hooks that stay long after the beat ends. On “She Knows,” late-night longing meets minimal instrumentation and wounded clarity. Meanwhile, “Good Guys Finish Last” is the bruised heart in motion — he admits the disillusionment, the futility, the tension of doing right when doing right seems to have lost its return.
The tension lies in how J’Moris lets imperfections breathe. He doesn’t pretend to be clean or whole. He leans in.
“Toxic Lovespell is the raw, unrestrained version of me — the good, the bad, and the ugly”
He owns every scar and blind spot, and that ethos is woven through his lyrics and delivered with care — refusing swagger when it’s undeserved, and using it when it cuts deeper.
Production by Supamario Beatz gives the album shape — beats that are atmospheric but grounding, spacious but urgent. Sometimes subtle keys swirl in; sometimes sparse drums breathe between words. The production respects the narrative, never overselling it, never crowding it out.
In Toxic Lovespell, J’Moris redraws expectations. This isn’t just the story of heartbreak—it’s the story of self-recovery in the same breath: we can be haunted and also heal, broken and also whole, angry and also compassionate. The album doesn’t always resolve the tension it holds, but that’s precisely what makes it feel alive. For Pop It Records, Toxic Lovespell doesn’t just confirm J’Moris’s trajectory — it accelerates it. He’s no longer just a voice worth listening to; he’s an artist who stakes a claim on his emotional geography. Whether he’s whispering his own wounds or daring you to look too close, this project proves that his magic is deep, flawed, and necessary.