The Mystery of Xenia Brooks 🌿🔮

They say the most beautiful souls are made of fire, and mine has gone through the flames. 🔥

I’m Xenia Brooks, an environmental scientist by day and a poet at midnight—or should I say poetry "bis"? 🌍💔

The Love We Will Never Be

I met him in the Amazon rainforest—one tent, two researchers and a big storm that lasted for three days. 🌧️ He traced the veins of a leaf the way a lover would trace the lips of a beloved. I should have known. Men who love mystery become mystery. He left me with a little note on the back of a soil sampling bag: "Some roots aren’t meant to tangle." Rude little poet. ✍️😒

The architect? He built skyscrapers, but he could not string together one honest sentence. 🏙️ Stacks of lies higher than his structures. I still find pieces of myself left behind in his blueprints...

Why should you follow me?

Because I’m going to show you how to find beauty in death—how rotting logs are the vector for mushrooms and how dying relationships are the opportunity to find out how strong you are. 🍄✨ Because my dms are full of graves of unanswered texts from men that though mystery meant available. (Spoiler: It doesn’t.)

And because…maybe you also loved someone who thought your heart was a disposable glove. 🧤❌ (We can compost those memories together.)

⚠️ PS You are now warned that when I post about climate grief, erotic botany, and the occasional 3am existential rant it won't be a surprise. 😘