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lilly Aug 12
he does everything halfway.

he laughs halfway:
chuckles travel halfway into my ear before he
clamps down a hand,
covering his charming calamity,
interrupting his intricate melody
-- half my mind melts into quicksand.
( it consumes and engulfs                     
the halfway bits of you i see;             
i can't have you, but even little bits
are good enough for me. )

he touches halfway:
reaches in for a hug but halts his motion,
as if i could burn him with half a breath.
he always settles for a hand on my shoulder,
or a bump at my side,
or a hesitant high five.

he touches halfway, but somehow
with just a tentative touch,
holes shaped like his eyes
are hammered into my heart.
his footsteps stain
every crevice of my brain
-- i can no longer clean myself of him.

he lies halfway:
he used to.
told me he loved me but
forgot to act like it.
smiled at me like i hung the moon
-- like i could scramble across skies,
searching for the brightest stars,
just to ****** them up and
serve them to him on a silver platter.
( i could, would.                            
but half my silver isn't enough
for your platinum-plated
plastic pulse. )
he sweetly smiled at me,
its own sugar-like song serenading me
-- but he simply did the same
to anyone who bowed in his reign.

he lies halfway and it is enough,
for his lies to wrap their way,
halfway around my gut,
and trap my lungs just enough
that i grow used to a tight chest
and holding half my breath.

he does everything halfway.

but when he loves?
he doesn't love halfway,
he loves no way.
-- maybe for someone else.
( but not for me; not for half of me.
am i not worthy                        
of more than half of you? )

he loves no way:
not in the way he says he "cares"
nor in the way he shares
only filtered fragments of himself.
the halfway bits of him i see
do not combine to form a full body.
scatter and speck and silvers
of someone i thought i knew.

he loves no way,
( and i am half a fool always,
to settle so surreptitiously )
for half of any.
half my heart wholly longs for half of you.
the other half is glad i never wholly gave in to you.
lilly Jun 17
Why did you say you             L #  $ @                  me?
Was it a lie? How can I learn to believe you, when everyone's told me otherwise?         ^           Is it too late?
                                                                ­         %                 Am I too late?
Do you no longer care for me? Am I no longer worthy or your attention, when I don't sing your praises? When I don't
         #                        *                 hang onto         ;
                     -               every word                                      ~         &
                                         +    you say?                    =

If I told you I             ! & % E            you, would that change a thing?

Is there anything I can do? Were we ever truly friends? Was I just a game to you?
          +             Am I that disposable
                                        that replaceable                  =
                                  ­             that obtainable?
                                 .                                                               @
                ^                                        .
    ­                                                                 ­           .
                                     *              ­                                    Will I ever learn?
When will my eyes stop meeting yours? When will they stop searching for you in every room and -                            &
           &                   -  every city and                       &
                          &           - every particle that grazes my eye?      

Why do I miss you? What can I do to make this better? I know it's not my job to but with you- with you I feel like I have to, you know? Why can't I lie to you ?

                                                            Do­
Do                                                              ­     you
    you                                             Do   you         still
                        L                  @               ­                          %   !   V   #
                    $               0                                                                ­          
                                                      ­  V      &
                                               ^                                 3
                                                               ­                               
                                 ­   still
                                                        ­                                             Me ?
all-too lasting questions asked in an experimental style; i still don't understand you- i don't think i ever will.
lilly Jun 13
gather round, as it is the season of stress:
as it nears may and june and
corners the wisps of summer that sting the air.
the scent of freedom and flights,
so close yet never close enough.

gather round, and watch as the silken spring leaves
(or, the strands of your hair)
turn inch by inch into summer screams of green
(or, the jealously burning inside you--
when you see someone smarter
see their right answer
see their paper; green and ticked and better.)

gather round, for it is almost over.

and you have worked hard- you have
(or, you have tried to)
and often that is enough.

the season of stress will fade soon,
but summer?
summer will always come.
summer sings in sun-kissed skin and lazy leaves
and blithe birds and timely trees;

gather round, to hear summer's sound.
final exams are rough but we can be tougher. the worst is over.
lilly Dec 2018
i kinda miss the moments
the sunny days
or the ones that rain pink
rain red and orange and sunset and end of the beginning

when i walk by the cafe
the sign board urns into a cinema screen
rewinding to
reading books and
long discussions

spilling tea and
drowning coffee
and then drowning tears
and then just-

or maybe, i kinda miss the feeling
the warmth that came with every evening
home
familiar scents enveloping all senses
sometimes when i close my eyes
i can still see the sound of your smile

i can still feel softness in linked hands
and then empty in a hand
and then wet in my hand
wet from my eyes
and wet from my cheek

or, i kinda miss us
us when it was us
when it was you and me
and not just- me

whole, still
still one (1)
but

two (2)
without you
feels odd

i kinda just miss
you?

you
and your giggles behind your hand
bubbling up your throat and into the air
i feel like i'm in disneyland

you
and your words
sometimes soft and sometimes spiteful
but always sure
your sentences spell a delicate decision i could only dream of delivering

and even then, in my dreams
my mouth shapes to form syllables i cannot say

and even still, the only word that comes out of my mouth
is your name

you are the only thing i have ever been sure of

so when i say
i miss the moments
and i miss feeling
and i muss us

what i really mean to say is
i just really miss
you

sometimes you don't need a reason to justify how you feel
and i miss you
because, like loving you

i just do
lilly Jun 2018
perhaps this has lost its spark

perhaps i no longer feel the words hanging on the edge of my tongue
waiting for my mouth to open and for them to drip off
onto paper
the way they always used to
used
to

or perhaps the doors to my mouth (heart) have been slammed shut by expectations
from my family (no)
my friends (no)
society (no it's not)

from myself

exams and grades and my overwhelming urge to try hard and work hard and do well and i'm just so scared of failing—

it builds upon my shoulders
i feel like atlas carrying the weight of the earth except
there's nothing beautiful in the weight i'm carrying
there's nothing living

perhaps i'm thinking too much
this might just be paranoia (no)
this might just be writer's block (no)
this might just be me being me (it's not)

perhaps i've just lost a bit of inspiration

*perhaps i've just lost a bit of myself
maybe i just don't know
lilly Feb 2018
Hey, would you like to know a secret?

It slits and stings and scorches the tip of my tongue
A scalpel painted with a sickening slice of hope
Of I know you used to
And I said I used to
But I meant I still do

My heart— no head still throbs
Thuds like the tapping of your fingers against the table

Your fingers
Light and floating and still too far
Flying too fast

My head
Heavy and sinking and still too close, to me
Still too close, to you
Still too close, to every synonym of unecessary
Still, too close, to my heart

Do you want to hear my secret?

My head throbs because of you,
No, not because of you, because of me
Because of confusion as to why
My mind is able to solve math equations that I hate
If I try hard enough

But for some reason my mind can't solve the question
Of why it keeps flitting back to you
Even if I try to will it away
And always to you
I have a million other things to do
And somehow you're always still the first priority

My head throbs because it doesn't understand
Because I don't understand
How is it then when you're vulnerable
And ask an "are you free to talk?"
The truth is no
I'm really not
Yet yes is the only word running through my head

Somehow
You always come first
I find that strange considering how the most you've ever thought about me is probably the second best thing

Here is my secret

I am sick of this
I am sick of you
But somehow your laughter is the antidote
It is the vaccine
The dosage I get daily

But eventually
It starts being less effective
Because I hear
Her laughter
In yours

And the more I get to know you
I feel like I'm just getting to know her
You say the same phrases
And so many things that you do
Are just so her
She's so thoroughly embedded into everything you do
It's almost impossible to separate the two of you

And I am sick
Of this
And I am sick
Of you

And how you say you used to
And how I say I used to
And how I still mean
I still do
still you
lilly Nov 2017
.

page one
it starts with the wave of a hand
a simple introduction
'hi, what's your name?'
it starts with looking and seeing nothing but what is there
skin and bones and blemishes and human
it starts with feeling no cliche butterflies in your stomach
and no additional voice in your head
amongst the others
and no rapid pulse in your still-beating heart

page two
somewhere along the way the waves turn into inside jokes and small smiles
crinkles by the corners of eyes
and light chuckles
and glancing just a millisecond too long

page three
and, well, glancing just a million times too often

page four
and you write poems in attempts to make yourself believe
to drown yourself in denial
to avoid confronting the - nonexistent - blooming bud growing
sprouting from all angled corners
and cracking curves
and jagged edges of you

page five
spoiler: it doesn't work

page six
and it's strange because apart from seeing what is there you see more
or really you don't see what is there
you see what you want to be there

page seven
you see skin and bones and beauty and freckles and stars and constellations in eyes and ethereal -

page eight
perfection

page nine
except perfection doesn't exist
and what you see doesn't exist
it's just your unrealistic expectations piled up from miles and smiles of movies and books and manga and everything

page nine
and you know this

page nine
but it goes into one ear and out the other

page nine
and it doesn't stop you from claiming

page nine
you're in love

page ten
if love is just infatuation with a physical manifestation of your ideals without their consent
then i guess you're right

page eleven
there are butterflies bending, banging on you, begging to be released

you wonder when your definition of beauty became a name and a face
and you wonder when love became synonymous to pain

page twelve
the butterflies turn into birds and then bears and then freaking buildings
except these building are moving and apparently earthquake proof because you can't seem to break them down
instead the buildings are breaking you down

but the truth is no, no they aren't
don't you see?
you're breaking yourself down

how do you heal if you are both the poison and the antidote?

page thirteen
if only you could rewrite the story
but how could you?
how do you rip the pages
how do you erase the sickeningly sweet
slow stabs slicing through your spine every time a smile is sent your way
how do you mute the thudding in your brain telling you that this could never be
how do you ignore the extra echoes in your head yelling at you to get yourself together

how do you get yourself together?

page fourteen
you've been asking so many questions lately
but you know the answer to all of them

page fifteen
there's a small voice
a minuscule, malevolent voice whispering maybe
whispering maybe and perhaps and potentially
maybe you're not the only one who wants to hold on just a little longer

page sixteen
but see
it's funny how the story starts with two people and now it's just one person with an overactive imagination
illustrating a person as something more
something better

page seventeen
but you're not creative enough to keep your illusion for too long
and soon you start to see less of what you want to be there and more of what is there
skin and bones and blemishes
and human

human

page eighteen
human is **** and human is cruel and human is wretched
but human is somewhat
beautiful
in its ugliness
and human is raw in all its dishonestly
and human is real
even if you made it out not to be

page nineteen
you will never truly now human
you will never truly know anyone or anything that isn't a figment of your imagination
but it's enough

page twenty
it starts with seeing nothing but what is there
skin and bones and blemishes
and human
and then it ends
the story ends somewhere
anywhere really
but it ends
it always ends
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