The Rules Of Mess, By Lila Kane
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 you’re 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) you’re expecting an overnight guest
c) you can’t 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.
More Posts from Poetrybylila and Others
i don’t care if it’s cliché to love the dead poet’s society. it’s a brilliant story and if loving it is wrong, i’ll never be right.
my favourite sounds at 2am:
the soft buzz of the refrigerator downstairs
the steady hum of the a/c above my head
the faint rustle of the trees by my window*
*(my actual favourite sounds at 2am:
the softness off your exhale as you lay beside me
the rustling of my sheets as you turn toward me
the steady beating of your heart as you press your chest against mine.)
Emily Dickinson, from her poem titled "1188," featured in The Emergency Poet
i relapsed.
i smoked 🍃 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 I’ve got more to write about.
- the dangers of romanticising pain as a poet
I don’t want to be the next Rupi Kaur or Trista Mateer. I want to be the first Lila Kane.
“I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve (or save) the world and a desire to enjoy (or savor) the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.”
— E.B. White
my heart lurches into my throat and lodges at the back like a jagged-edge stone. my lungs sprout wings and fly away.
the aching of their absence in my chest is heavy, despite my rib cage housing hollow. my skin jumps and begs to rip free.
i wake, and it is not a dream. my body is running from me, yet my mind will not free itself- it delights in it's cranial prison.
i wake, and your body is still rotting 6 feet under, your heart and lungs and skin and mind no more- but i cannot gift mine.
Yena Sharma Purmasir - “When I’m Not There”
me, the motherfucker with over 50 abandoned works in progress: i have an idea
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