creating nikki

prose poetry. healing.

[creatingnikki]

It’s June again but this time I’m smoking in bed. I’m naked and I’m smoking and my thighs are glorious. Murakami doesn’t read as interesting to me anymore, I flip through obscure books, Spanish translated and never known Indian authors, from the bookstall at the metro as I lie sprawled on the bed. It’s June again and I’m naked in bed, eating ice cream. It falls on my neck, sweet and cold, and when I jolt up straight it drips between my cleavage and I laugh. A full laugh. A mouth-open, back-arching kind. And I know: none of this is performative. None of it is for the male gaze. This is mine. My softness. My room. My mess. I’m a child again, lying on a towel after a shower, smelling like rain and something reclaimed. Nobody is going to swaddle me. Nobody is going to kiss my forehead and tuck me in. I am free. The lullabies now are the chirping of the birds at 4 am, the cats fighting in the lowest tree. I’ve given up the whiskey. I’ve given up the desire for your name on my tongue, your tongue on mine. I’ve stopped rereading our messages like a detective. Chinese takeout doesn’t seduce me in sad girl hours the way it used to. I eat slowly now. I even moan when something is good—food, music, solitude. I put on lip gloss, not balm, before bed sometimes now. Being a bitch to myself is so last season. Now I sleep without a goodnight and wake up without a good morning—the texts may be missing but the hours are good nonetheless. Better even. I make breakfast—I eat. I dance while brushing my teeth. I look at the mirror and sometimes—not always, but sometimes—I wink. It’s June again, and I am decadent, I’m divine—I’m mine.

[creatingnikki]

Yeah it’s absolutely fucking disgusting that you heard me cry like that and you knew I was up all night suffering and yet all I got was a sorry and no follow through. But you know now at 29, with this lush heart of mine and this beautiful brain of mine, and all this fucking suffering and lessons and wisdom and hurt and pain and strength and all…you know what’s worse? If I don’t leave. I can tell you that you hurt me and it sucked but if there’s no repair or change then shouldn’t I hold myself accountable too? No, it wasn’t my fault that I cared or loved or wanted more or put in the effort or hoped. I don’t regret that. I think that’s a brave thing to do given everything I’ve already been though. The thing I do have to hold myself accountable for is not disengaging from people and situations once I realize they will keep making me cry like that again. And while I’m breaking they will sleep peacefully, go to the gym, work, etc. I need to hold myself accountable too.

[creatingnikki]

Physics and poetry

Two things can be true two things can be true two things can be true. I can miss laughing with you and our banter and I can also recognise that you probably lied to me about a lot of things or at least didn’t respect me enough to consider me the way I considered you. Two things can be true. I can smile when I think of a joke you may have cracked and still never feel safe enough with you again to let my guard down. Two things have to be true because how is it that you gave me this feeling of a divine blessing in the form of a connection with such levity and play exactly at the time my life was feeling like a bed of rocks was being laid on top of me and also destabilise me to the point that I was crying like a child at work in the fire escape stairwell not bothered about who saw me? Two things have to be true because I am not going to regret those hours we spent where I felt like I was ten again and a boy and girl could just be friends and I was not putting up a performance and yet and yet I also am going to let you go. Two things are true. Physics and poetry. They coexist. So of course two things can be true at the same time and I am going to let that amuse and comfort me. I am not going to lose my faith or self over that duality.

[creatingnikki]

My tits are sore and I want iced coffee and I don’t want to be a part of this family. And then as I finish my third cigarette I know that it would have been the same if I was a part of any other family. This heaviness is the inheritance and your task is to write it off as much as you can as you live your life. You cry at pubs in new cities and at the fire escape stairwell at work and you humiliate yourself in front of people who think you’re cool and you allow yourself to be messy and real and all over the place. You feel it and you purge it and you process it and you release it. You do not calcify it to pass it on to your children if you so choose to have any. Because thats the deal, right? You are going to fuck up your kids. You are going to give them their inheritance too. But maybe you can make it so that it’s a little more manageable and a lot more speakable and a lot less expensive on their sanity and soul. You are allowed your tears and you are allowed your cigarettes and you are allowed to be not as cohesive when you like somebody and they hurt you. You know why? Because you’ve been paying the cost. And you are doing alright. And you get to be. And you get to have your tits grabbed and sucked on and kissed and slapped even in a space that is safe and comfortable. But it took a lot to get there, didn’t it? It took a lot. Make that iced coffee extra strong today because when you taste it, it’s going to taste sweet anyway—you’ve had a tremendous growth arc.

[creatingnikki]

Fruits and white dresses will save you. Girls who are chalant and full of life despite what life tries to do to them on a daily basis will save you. Boys who don’t want you for your body and appreciate you for your personality and company will save you. The moon, the sea, that child with missing teeth will save you. Ramen at one am when you feel like you’re dying of a fever and are all alone will save you. The hesitations and miseries of long dead writers printed in cheap pages will save you. Seeing the humanity in your father will save you. And when you stop being a bully to yourself, that too, my dear darling child, will most definitely save you.

[creatingnikki]

Actually? I’m kinda done with the yearning for a person. And I’m done with the romanticisation of that yearning. Maybe my soulmate was never born in this life. Maybe soulmates don’t exist. Maybe souls even don’t exist. Okay, I take that last one back.

But the point, the point is fuck this shit. How can I try to be happy in my own life when I keep thinking that it being merged with another’s life is going to be the ultimate thing? I may fall in love, I may even meet that big true love of my life. But like so what if I don’t?

It’s like how do you enjoy play time on the ground as a child when your best friend has not shown up? Nothing is fun without them and you just don’t feel like playing with anyone.

But here, that friend is hypothetical. You don’t even know if they exist. But you’re at the playground. Go on, play, you know? You can’t have convinced yourself that this hypothetical friend is going to show up and only then will you truly play and have fun.

Cos like there is so much fun to be had, man. All this yearning? Yuck.

[creatingnikki]

sometimes it’s a Thursday afternoon in late April and you just have to put on Taylor Swift songs and smoke cigarettes and drink aam panna and forget you have a corporate job or duties as a daughter or yearning as a woman and then proceed to shower and lie down on the floor and let the ground give you the steadiest hug and come back to Tumblr and realize it’s not that serious and scream into the void and order some cupcakes. okay? okay.

[creatingnikki]

tell me three facts about you on/off anon, and I'll write you a love poem. i'm yearning, let me channelise it into poetry?

[creatingnikki]

A soulful sandwich. Five minutes in the sun when there is cool breeze. A peaceful smoke in a calm corner, a book pressed against your chest in a crowded elevator. A new set of bangles on your left hand, a red lipstick that compliments you flawlessly. A cat that comes to you on her own and rubs her body against your legs. An ice cream that tastes like the year you were ten. A forehead kiss that does not want more. A breath that feels like letting go of control.

Little things I want this week.

[creatingnikki]

You live like you’ve lived before and you grieve like you’ll not live again. Time is a joke or is it the longest running joke on us? I know soon enough I will not remember, and sooner yet, I shall not care. The collarbone, the tears, the intimacy of our phone calls. It was real for a breath and now it is stale. Memory like bread that has been expired but you don’t see the mold, it’s a shame to throw it out already. I’m going to drink my confused decoction of luke warm iced coffee and I sip from that glass straw I will sigh at the echo of your laugh… somewhere tucked in my cells still holding on to the softness you touched me with. And yet, once the coffee is over, I will remember that the highest grace, the most precious thing I have given myself is the ability to say no and walk away from lunar love. No use it is, these periodic desires and waning feelings. My heart is steadier and it seeks the radiance of love that shows up eagerly, naturally, rotation after rotation until revolutions have passed by and our hands are still in each other’s, firmly, gently.

[creatingnikki]

You learn the quiet rhythm of someone when you begin to spend every day with them. Or a part of every day with them.

You used to come home in the evening and remove the rings, all 10 of them, and place them on the one table in your room. You’d turn on the fairy lights, get into your home clothes, and begin crushing.

Yes, you’d tie up your hair first. And also make me a drink. And then you’d begin crushing sitting on one edge of the bed while I sat on the other as I rambled about my day, my feelings, my interactions with others to you.

And then you’d light it and smoke. And then we’d order dinner. You’d open the door and warmly greet the delivery person. I don’t remember if you’d tip them. I think you would. Then we’d sit cross legged on your bed facing each other eating. The cheaper things, the food on discount. You have to do that if you’re in your 20s and you order in dinner every night.

After dinner, you’d keep the trash out the door. We’d then lie in bed and watch Reels on your phone. Why didn’t we ever watch it on mine? But sometimes we’d watch a kdrama I picked.

If you weren’t too tired, you’d drop me home. Or else you’d ask me to stay over. We’d go to bed, wiped out, platonic cuddling under that velvet blue blanket. Platonic cuddling. Ha. You were the exception. Can’t imagine that with any one else.

I wonder what your rhythm is now. I wonder what skyline you admire. I wonder who you cuddle with now. I hope you do always have warmth and comfort in reach.

[creatingnikki]

You’re twenty nine now. And the birthday cake is not the sweetest thing you taste. It’s the presence of the people who love you on the days you’re bright and on the days you’re blue. When you blow out the candles, you don’t have much to wish for. The things you want, by now you know you are the one who has to make it happen. And by now you trust yourself to know you will. It may not be the most optimum process or the smoothest timeline but your soul doesn’t work on the principles of capitalism, does it? It works well with a nervous system that is regulated, a body that is well rested and listened to, and a heart that doesn’t find its lushness painfully tragic. It works on a mind that is luminous and a smile that shows it. It works when it’s well oiled with warmth, with resonance, with clarity, and with earnestness. You’re twenty nine now. Thank you for making it here being the person you are. No part of you needs to be murdered. Only cared for better. Eat the cake. Get some rest. You’re doing good.

[creatingnikki]

I wish I could put my thoughts into words the way you do, love reading your stuff <3

Thank you <3 It's both a blessing and a curse, haha.

[creatingnikki]

And once again January. And once again the familiar ache and hope. Will this year be on my side? And if not, will I do well, anyway? No resolutions, no goals. Your life is larger than one calendar year. Let there be emotional house rules, orientations, and guidelines. Let there be cake and books and not staying longer than your nervous system signs off for. Let there be new hobbies and old comforts. Let there be joys you cannot possibly fathom right now. Let there be wins. Let there be grace in losses. And let your stomach continue to allow for spicy food and cigarettes. Smile like you always do. Share your inner dialogue less. Write as much, more, perhaps. Read the books that pick you. Tune out off the noise. Let yourself be bored. And yes, more flowers, please. More dinners on rooftop restaurants on full moon nights. Don’t confuse emotional labour for intimacy. Reduce your exposure to extractive situations and connections. Refill your bottle of water more promptly and let your skin be moisturised. Journal by hand, journal digitally. Keep understanding your body and personality and work with it, never against it. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. More visits to the sea. More letting things be. You’re lovely. You’re doing good. Breathe.

[creatingnikki]

This feels heavy right now because you didn’t abandon yourself to keep it light. A boundary was stated clearly multiple times over course of the dinner. And then it was crossed. Why? Because of an impulse? Yeah, we aren’t going to be buying that. An adult knows what they are doing. He was trying to test the waters. And even when he saw you were uncomfortable he went for it anyway. You didn’t abandon yourself, you did not choose to ignore it or let it go. You chose to call it out and end it. Even thought it felt like something you would have liked to explore. And yes, it feels heavy. It’s because you paid upfront. Lightness that comes from avoidance always demands a payment later—with compounded impact and distress. I don’t know if most women date successfully by ignoring such violations or ignoring their discomfort or just putting up with things. Things that men and society try to justify as conditioning, desire, the apparent lack of control men have around someone they want. It may be so normalised that he may not even be a a bad person. Just someone who doesn’t understand or cares to stop and understand how messed up this is. But we don’t care about that anymore, do we? We are not making this an identity case study. We are not moralising him or you. We are simply seeing behaviour (his) and the impact it has (on you). And his behaviour tonight? Disrespectful, unnecessary, violating, and completely unacceptable. The impact? Nervous system dysregulation, grief of having to let go of something you hoped could be beautiful, and the quiet ache of choosing yourself even when it is lonely.

But isn’t this what healing often looks like? Not dramatic, not loud. Just someone choosing themselves quietly on a floor mat at 1:20 am, upset, angry and yet calm and intact

[creatingnikki]

another year is ending and I want you to know that it is okay if you:

have not healed from the things that happened/did not happen from six months ago. just because the year is ending it does not mean your grief is too.

don't have any "fun" NYE plans to ring in the new year. this life is yours to live across days and months and years, and you can celebrate days other than the ones heavily marketed and shoved down your throat to shroud you in severe FOMO.

have no resolutions or goals for the new year laid out in elaborate lists or shared on social media or with your friends. you are braving through this life trying to do your best every day and hold the fort and so of course you know, deep down you know what is needed from you for you going forward and of course you are going to work in that direction. good luck love.

have not become a "better" version of yourself by any of the tangible or conventional measures. that kind of bettering is mostly to serve others, not yourself.

are not happy with yourself/your life as it is now. you're a work-in-progress, remember? and if you're progressing in a direction you do not like, then it's time to change the blueprints and the strategy.

take time off social media around this time to protect your mental health and whatever little joy you have managed to keep.

don't want to spend too much time reflecting on how this past year went and doing various forms of 2023-wrapped. again, it's your life. you can also revisit this year in memories and pictures and feelings whenever you'd like. it's not like you don't still visit 2012, 2017, and 2022, right?

feel disconnected from your friends, family, lover. I know this is "ideally" a time to be celebrated with your loved ones. but life is not ideal, is it? it's just life. and if right now you are not feeling the love, the joy, or just don't have the headspace or social energy to engage , that's alright.

are finding comfort in simpler things like a TV show from the 90s or that book you first read at sixteen or that slice of strawberry cake or a random post like this you come across.

don't feel hopeful, encouraged, or excited for the new year. given everything that's happened in the last couple of years, on the macro and micro level, it's only natural for you to feel weary as well as wary. when the good things happen, when the healing happens, when things begin working in your favour over time, you will automatically feel all those things. it's okay if until then you choose to be neutral.

[creatingnikki]

It strikes me as crazy that one day you’re just supposed to stop loving someone. You’re supposed to stop talking to them. You’re supposed to stop waking up and video calling them. You’re supposed to never hear them laugh or make them laugh again. It strikes me as crazy that you’re supposed to stop thinking about them when you hear their favourite artist or eat their favourite dessert. How you’re supposed to be okay never hearing your name from their mouth again. Tell me, how do people survive it? Tell me, why aren’t people more stubborn in refusing to let go of someone they hold so close to their chest night after night, morning after morning. Tell me, how am I supposed to just move on as if we are strangers again, as if I never knew what it felt like when you kissed my face? When you held my hand? When you cared about my existence? How do I do that? I’m good at pretending… you have to pretend if you want to survive. I didn’t want yet another pretence of indifference towards a human I held to tenderly.