dear lily,

skin like puff pastry, the sweetest thing on this side of hell like the perfume that you wear he lingers for all the time, the trail of angel dust you're made of he follows with this masculine urge to marry jo march. your compliments like bullets on skin. dazzling starlet, bardot reincarnate.

eyes white as daisies. did he ever tell you that he's not doing well? and you care, he cares. he doesn't want to be a burden. he just fuck things up so much. he just mess up so much. can't even race. can't drive. can't overtake. can't make a proper turn. what the fuck is he doing? nothing. just lack of talent.

he tried. so hard.

he's getting swallowed here, you know?

it's like you're just out to get him, bringing out the worst and best of him. and he can't help but to just loathe you lately. despise his jealous eyes and how hard they fell for you. despise his rotten mind and how much it worships you. despises his deflating heart and how much it felt okay with you.

how much he wouldn't think of alex albon giving colorful flowers for his lily who hated boxed red roses. or oscar piastri's addicting lily's aristotle coded self. or the lily charles leclerc would tuck behind his alex's ear. or the vase of lily pierre would always prepare for kika. or the tiny crown of lilies max would wear made by p. or his dreams in his early adult years as the world champion and his mom hugging him, carlos teasing him, daniel beaming at him.

just you. his lily.

but one-sided hurts, you know.

and you're not even named lily. it's just what he calls you in his head. cause like a lily, you're his death and grief. and he sleeps so he can see you and he hates to wait so long. so, here he was, dragging his feet towards you.