Every woman I have ever loved is still working out how to love herself. Has a closetful of ghosts and has been to a hundred funerals of the women she used to be. Wonders what wounds her mother carries that she will never know about. Hopes that the weight of the world doesn't eventually crush her, that she is strong enough to handle it all. Wishes a day will come when she can put it all down, give her aching shoulders a rest. Wants someone to truly see her and not make a feast of her kindness and dreams. Is forever hiding a secret hunger for what calls to her in the dark. Holds a universe inside her, but has been told to make herself smaller despite the paradox. Praise be that universes are not in the business of listening to anyone but themselves. Every woman I have loved has thought about it. The art of disappearing. To be here one day, and the next, like smoke, simply gone.

- Nikita Gill, Every Woman I Have Ever Loved

Do you wonder what I see, or how I interpret the world, and all it's distorted beauty. The books I read, and how I, sit at home, to quietly fill time, as he becomes a distant thought, drifting so elegantly out of sight. Shall I stumble in multidimensional, and intrinsic qualities, that separate, me from you, melodramatic interludes. What a powerful burden you bestow, I've politely refused, for I'm not a light, or mortal man's delicate burning muse. So, please do not beg me to breathe, the air from his lungs, an infatuated love, only to evaporate with the morning sun, for each night he will die and I will rise, in a temporary utopia, made of him and I.

Utopia

I love holding you like I am sewing you into my veins steeping you into my blood. Am I beautiful enough for you and is the moon golden tonight? You sleep while I wake, as I slide past you with a ghostly smile. Then the birds woke angrily, and the wind shook my heart. I want to be cheek on cheek, where the rough edges of your jaw remind me the only way back is to find the sharp things inside us and pull gently, so we feel.

It’s half quarter before midnight and the moon is half-asleep. Its quiet light tenderly splayed out in the darkest spots. Behind the tallest lamp and two inches above the headboard and on my chest and in between my fingers. The careful moonlight feels like a warm hug. A goodbye that oddly sounds like a hello too. I’ve forgotten how a spine can stretch comfortably when the night eases all the tension away. 28 feels a lot like sprawling out and unbending until pressure points are loosened and you’re completely exposed. I don’t hold onto a lot of people anymore. I still listen to the same old songs and watch the same shows, but I stopped waiting on things and people to catch up to me. I say “I love you” once but show it twice and more. I’m learning to just sit with the painful memories instead of recycling them into lessons. Same with people too. My heart is still soft, but I’m a far cry from 16 years old. My hands are still always searching for warm places to touch, but I’m remembering cold places are touch-starved too. I often miss summer when it’s cold and damp. And miss the chilly air when I’m baked under the Michigan heat. I think about how I used to miss parts of myself in the same way. Perpetually unsatisfied and mystified of what could be.

I spent the last year stretching out all my limbs and unfolding skin that remained hidden for so long. Light-starved and unseen. I want to remember not just the grandest experiences but also the quietest moments. I want to be felt and seen. My 20s have been a lot of drowning out all the noise to hear myself. My voice spreading farther and louder like the glistening sun rays of July. All my light reaching into places and people I’ve met and yet to meet. I want to grow warm, grow full. I want to tuck light and love in all the darkest spots. Inside a dresser and underneath the bed and on my nape and in all my bones.

No Longer Remembered 11.25.23 “Sabbath”

Gather ‘round and bring a cup It's time to dine, it's time to sup You’ve traveled far so let me fill you up Sit side, by side, by foe or friend With meat, food served without end Do not, from my home, make me send How might we pass, from hand to hand this god Slain, and lain in onions, apples, shallows, and nod Our head pronated, dining shall not spoil these children the rod And in the resting head of light, laid down, sliced to dine Let us glow, not glower, high upon each other–warm with wine No red string of fate to hold us, simply common brown twine So, fill yourself, myself, and I shall entertain When morning comes, no meal is found; just friendship shall remain

@env0writes C.Buck Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artist! Photo by @env0

Murder by Memories.

Hey, Love.

It's raining outside. As I sit by the window, in the comfort of my room, I open my whatsApp to re-read our old texts. Partly, it's because I still miss you but mostly, it's because to remind myself about why I left and why I should not miss you.

To be honest with you, I compel myself to focus only on the bad parts of our relationship while reading these text messages. Because it has already been hard enough to move on from you, I don't wanna make it more arduous by remembering the good parts. I know that I sound selfish but can you really blame me? I'm just trying my best to do whatever it takes to fix my broken heart. I have not felt like myself since the day I walked away from you. Everything that I do, every thought in my mind, and everywhere that I go reminds me about you. You've been deeply and indelibly entrenched in each and every bit of my life. You have left me with an emptiness inside of me - a void - that can never be filled.

You know that I loved you more than anything in my life and I would have done anything for you. All I ever needed was a sincere effort from you towards healing. You know that I would have stood by your side throughout the whole journey. I would've loved you the same(probably more), regardless of the outcome. I wanted you to try therapy and healing, not for the sake of myself, but for the sake of yourself and your own happiness because I have seen you carry that immense pain, tormenting grief, and agonizing sadness at the core of your heart and I couldn't just sit back and bear witness to you living in such misery. It hurt me more than it hurt you because the pain inflicted upon my heart from the despair of not being able to help the person I love the most is truly indescribable. A real tragedy, to say the least.

Perhaps, In retrospect, I feel like I just didn't know when to give up. Despite everything, I stuck by your side and blindly hoped for a miracle. My heart convinced me that maybe if I love her hard enough, I can take away her pain and sadness. I, desperately, held on to any semblance of hope that one day, everything is gonna work out - you and I, both, are gonna be happy and live the rest of our lives together. This hopeful imagination, as fleeting as it was, has been the happiest dream of my life that never came true. The night I broke up with you, I was lying on my rooftop, looked at the stars with my teary eyes and whispered to myself : "I really wish it didn't have to end this way". That's probably the saddest moment of my life.

Some days are easy and some days are really hard but there's not a single day that goes on without thinking about you. Today's one of those really hard days. Something happened today that reminded me about you, more than the usual. Needless to say, I felt a strange and hollow sensation in my heart. Felt weak and empty. For a moment, I was amazed by the fact that you still have so much power over my heart, after all this time. Makes me question myself - is there something really wrong with me that I love you so much and think about you so much, even if it hurts.

I really needed to get this off my chest. Now, I'm gonna distract myself with life until the next time when your thoughts flood my mind and drown me, again. I hope you're happy, wherever you are. I wish you nothing but the best. Take care, Love.

Miss you.❤

Goodbye.

backstab, j.l. 

They say writers are messy and full of cigarette smoke-

Sitting alone in dark rooms drowning in their thoughts.

Falling in love is second nature - a poem will be written about the love who became lost.

You see, writers aren’t messy

Writers are the ones with a heart of gold.

Writers are the ones who turn nightmares into fairytales.

Writers are the ones with imaginations so big that they can create their own story.

Fall in love with a writer.

Fall in love with a writer because they will weave their love for you in words, and stories.

The house sat open and empty, almost finished.

One of many casualties of a love gone sour, shriveled and cold in the Midwest winter.

Almost called a home.

Open like a sore.

Open like a wound.

No curtains hung to cover the windows, nothing to dampen their naked desire to be looked out of instead of always into. Their longing leaked into the street, into the car where I sat, eyes heavy with tears for this house. It's the house I pity, and its sadness was suffocating me.

Why does love so often feel like it's all blade and no handle? Why does it feel like a blade at all? Why does love seek to hurt you so deeply?

Why does my idea of self love so often just mean selfish?

I can already see the cracks, and I am slipping through like ash passing beyond in the wind. I don't know how to write anything that isn't threaded with goodbye. I don't know how to stop longing for the end.

If our paths diverged and if it had been our love that had bloomed and died on the vine as a casualty of an excess of sadness on my part. You would sell the house. Another symptom of pain. Another ghost in your mind. You would sell the house and move away and never speak my name again.

I'd like to say I would keep it. I'd like to think I would fill the house with nothing but sweet memories and let myself be at peace.

And while it's true. The ownership of this husk of a home would never pass from my hands. But I would let it become a haunted place, I would take it down a dark path. I would let the home we should have shared together devour me.

- this house is not a home it's a haunt

weight shifts on mattress an arm outfolds; agiven nestle in to sleep

Have you ever felt like you are the quiet ghost everyone can see but chooses to look through. Like your body is there, just transparent, you speak but no one hears you, not really. The act of disappearing is not so hard truly. You can do it even in a room surrounded by people who love you. Just pretend you aren’t there, and everyone around you will pretend you have vanished too.

- Nikita Gill

— m.d.g // desiderium

I often wonder what constellations must have aligned, to shape the parallels, of our beautiful, unique and complex lives. Those years I spent feeling lost and afraid, sitting in a neighborhood bar with people, who appear resolute, delusional, ashamed. I found beauty in kindness and compassion, and accepted the help I didn't feel deserving of, in those first few weeks and depressing months. There were parts of myself I numbed to survive, and for a time I felt that was more than enough, that I'd done all the work left, to ever be done. Unfortunately, I discovered that surviving, was the beginning, it would take more time, than I was willing to give, awaking each day, in a quiet home, out of reach and safe. I haven't forgotten how I arrived here, the desperation and loneliness of a life, so far away from home and prying eyes, for him it made my illness easier to dismiss, in the year that passed, untreated and denied.

Parallels

I am hummingbird brave, I am, my fevered love, my welcome chest, come in and build your nest, these ribs are made from archways of aches, twig piles of delight, grand hallways of grief, go rest yourself on the moss of my soul, I ready myself with a full-stamened throat and the quivering of wings, we meet like it’s the arising spring, under the new moon, and its discarded stars.

Dear September,

I want the gray skies of your sad morning. Let’s sit together with our lipstick stained mugs and the growing pains on our shoulders from trying to appear broader and bigger. I do want something quiet and unhurried, but I find myself running after apparations of an idyllic future. I can’t stop tripping over my tired heart. Can’t stop rocking back and forth and back and forth on this wooden chair. Waiting and waiting. Waiting for something to click into place. Find something to diffuse into all my negative space. My heart a gas leak spilling out to your gloomy clouds.

Sometimes the gray looks and feels like a sunburn. Sometimes it’s just the blue light of your late night and I’m letting it sit still with me at the table. It stretches across and holds my hand like an old friend. I play pretend then. Pull my lips wide into a semblance of a grin. Sometimes it works.

Actually, I don’t want the sad skies of your gray morning. Let me grow an appetite for golden light.