To Live Without Art Is To Live Without Breath.

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.

plopped into cool water, my manus flattens against the stone below as a bowl upturns like a dome above.

my marble eyes ring with the warning of moonlight, my skin glistens, slick with sage-

i peer at my greenhouse, pads reaching to press the convex glass, curiosity caressing my face-

but comfort follows me beneath the water, serenity tying me back to stone.

then steam clouds the cage; lids close off sight, then sound- suddenly, silenced, i muster one last croak. poetrycommunity

death by comfort // the boiling frog

sometimes i’m not put together. sometimes i’m not pretty. sometimes my words drip with the crudeness of bukowski and the bite of the primal woman beneath them. sometimes i’m broken and wheezing, or just hollow. as a poet, i won’t hide it. my writing follows me wherever i go. stoned, on a come down, in the thick of the healing and of the pain. i’m not palatable, no matter how you look at it. and that’s just too damn bad.

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.

defines you? no.

shapes you? moulds you? becomes you? yes.

our identity is malleable as fuck. our experiences warp it day in and out. the good and the bad.

and this is not to invalidate you: your traumas are real, stifling, and the consequences echo.

but never forget they’re not what’s written under “you” in the dictionary.

they’re just littered throughout your wiki.

“your trauma doesn’t define you” no actually it does. it dictates every aspect of my shitty life.

🥰🥰😭😭 this is so damn sweet

Dead Poets Society

-1989

Girls when they life starts to sound little bit too much like the fig tree analogy by Sylvia Plath

she is literally perfect…

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