april is grey

may 09, 2025

this piece is apart of a larger collection that will be unfolding over the next couple of weeks. “what is dead, must die again,” feels like a debut. i’ve been writing my whole life and almost a year on substack but this, is more. this means something, something i can’t quite place but it definitely feels like a new beginning for me as a writer.

the pieces in this collection are a reflection of some things i’ve been discovering within myself and a eulogy to every version of myself that has brought me here. this debut is the harvest of the many, many seeds i’ve planted and i am elated to finally share this collection with you.

at refined ink subscribing is always optional and becoming a paid subscriber is more of a donation and a gesture of support to the writer. makhela inez, is abundantly grateful for however you choose to support.

now, let’s dig in.

birthday 2:34a

i rest and eat donuts and dance like a woman who feels wild and young, and free.

saturday 6:17a

the mental fortitude that is required for this time of my life is eating me up. feels like showing up for a test i thought i was ready for, only i’m looking at the page and everything looks foreign. and i’m grasping at affirmations like their oxygen capsules and i’m reminding myself that my feelings are not a reflection of my reality and and and some days it feels like i’m just, hanging on.

wednesday 12:42p

i decided to read outside today. i took my coffee and my book and sat under the sunshine. there is assuredly pollen all over this patio table but i sit and read and giggled and sniffle all afternoon. i felt the sun heat up the back of my neck, drank my coffee until it got cold. i watched the birds snack on some seeds and sing their songs.

imagine you open up your month and a song comes out. everyday, every moment an experience as musical, a lullaby, an ode to every feeling and thought you might have. and what everyone hears is not just what you’re singing but what you’re feeling and everything in between. no miscommunication, no misunderstanding.

i read a text and laugh out loud, laugh loud. the stranger sitting next to me turns and glances my way. i laugh and i don’t suppress or hide. i’m exploring what is feels like to be in this body. remembering what it is to be present with this body.

the barista is outside taking a break. she’s smoking a cigarette. everyone smokes here, a lot of people smoke here. but i can smell the hint of the smoke, and the smallest crest of a smile slowly peeks out. i feel naughty, like i’m not supposed to enjoy the hint of smoke on the wings of the wind.

i went to bed tonight with a smile on my face, i lived today, i whisper into the dark. i did not worry or overthink, analyze or check off lists. i lived.

thursday 1:13p

i think about what it would be like to stare into someone’s eyes. no obligation to say anything or do anything just explore their color, their depth.

in the morning i apply moisturizer and i apply my makeup and sometimes, when i am brave, i stand at the mirror and look into my own eyes. i forget that they’re brown. warm deep brown, the brown that goes good with tiffany blue and blush pink. the brown that reminds me of reading and autumn and dark academia and hot kisses between book stacks. this brown is the color of rich soil where plants find homes and sink their roots deep to later bloom and stretch and smile.

those are my eyes. holding possibility and care and adoration and compassion, compassion lives there too. in my eyes. my mom used to look into my eyes and smile and call them big beautiful turtle dove eyes.

i’ve never met a turtle dove.

.m