i relapsed.
i smoked đ for the first time since november of 2024.
everything got too much; the world swallowing me whole; my gut emptying to hollow; my heart beating frantically at the trapping of a vice.
so i succumbed to the relief. erased months of perseverance, strength, growth.
at least now Iâve got more to write about.
- the dangers of romanticising pain as a poet
sheâs a faint star in a cluster;
your eyes need time to adjust to the dark
before you can spot her.
but then, you canât miss her.
youâll map her coordinates
and check in every night,
watch her rise and fall
throughout the seasons
and twinkle beyond wisps of cloud.
sheâll be one in millions, billions, trillions?
but sheâll be yours.
i donât care if itâs clichĂ© to love the dead poetâs society. itâs a brilliant story and if loving it is wrong, iâll never be right.
Dead Poets Society
-1989
a childâs disclosure
i took notes around the corner
from the chainsawâs roar,
while the lock was wrenched off
by its teeth.
and i wrote about the fear,
and the tears,
and the injustice of it all.
no safe space to callâ
not home,
not him.
i watched puffy eyes,
matted hair,
tremorsâ
and i thought and thought.
but all i could do was take notes
around the corner
from the chainsawâs roar,
while the lock was wrenched off
by its teeth.
places i vape:
in public bathrooms
in airport corners
under my desk at work
beneath my hoodie
on mountaintops
on backyard chairs;
in my sleep, in my waking, in my dreams. beneath the clouds and the shadows. on the horizon and the stars and my aching soul.
(addiction presents as poetry, just ask bukowski)
i woke up at 4am to my cat throwing up beside me in bed. guess this is what married life looks like đ
the rules of mess, by lila kane
1. there must be no fewer than six items crowding your coffee table. at least two must be either:
a) an open packet
b) a hand cream or lip balm
c) any writing utensil
d) your phone, keys, or wallet
2. all laundry baskets must return to their natural state of overflow within ten business days of being emptied.
3. rubbish bins may only be emptied once no amount of tamping down will allow the lid to close.
4. forgotten miscellaneous items must collect themselves beneath beds, sofas, and cabinets.
5. dust may be permitted to accrue in all spaces containing knickknacks or trinkets. it may only be removed on a whim, or when the space is about to be used or observed by outsiders.
6. all neatly folded linens and towels must return to a haphazard state within twenty business days of straightening up.
7. cosmetics and personal care items may not remain in their assigned spaces for more than two uses, especially if youâre running late.
8. no more than fifty percent of books in the house may be read. at least four must be started then abandoned. at least five must remain free from shelving at any given time.
9. sheets may only be washed if:
a) bodily substances (such as blood or semen), or drinks like coffee, tea, or hot chocolate, have been spilled
b) youâre expecting an overnight guest
c) you canât remember the last time they were washed, and the mood strikes to wash them
10. an excess of blankets and pillows must be present in at least two rooms. they may not remain aesthetically arranged for more than five business days.
I donât want to be the next Rupi Kaur or Trista Mateer. I want to be the first Lila Kane.
me, the motherfucker with over 50 abandoned works in progress: i have an idea