I don't know the equations running through her head or what the solutions are in the end. Mary whispers poems about recreation through the Telephone wires thousands of miles away in blistering heat, She says she can hear me starving. But its not me that i see. Its all of you. Whoring yourself on brain numbing tv shows , whoring yourself with a corporate black eye, all of you little victims fist fucked by american culture so hard. I see this human condition thats so sick and beautiful. sometimes theres no balance. The sick outweighs the beauty and its airbourne but theres always miss mary with her sick perverted optimism to sing me to sleep.
Love, Lily
Love, Lily
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I am selfish though, I want you to stick around. I admit it. The pain you eat and convert into diamonds grinds like shards of glass in my hope for your safety.
Peace Lily and to all of those who know you.