Welcome to Lippy

I feel like I’m in a constant waiting game. Waiting for you to let me in Waiting to see you again Waiting for, forever. Time is suspended. Miles stretch like elastic Sound won't echo Foundations remain scaffolding and Everyone knows your name. The phantom I’ve framed my future around, Framed it for— Like a piece of unknown artwork, with an unwilling muse. Still, you hang on the interior of my mind. Is this a requited feeling? Do they know the artist or have I remained a frame

Pressed into my hands without consolation, already hemmed and labelled, size only guessed at. I learned its limits the way you know the seams of a borrowed coat: the stabbing pinch high in the underarm when I reach too far, the sudden gape when I bend, the slow drag across my back when I turn away. It comes with me regardless, clinging along my shoulders, cupping the base of my skull, settling over me with the dull inevitability of weather. Some days it is almost indifferent;

Nobody likes being lied to, especially in music. We want to believe that the artists we connect with understand our experiences, or at least speak from a place of truth. And because of that, nothing feels worse than discovering an artist is faking it. Rick Ross rapping about being a drug kingpin while actually working as a correctional officer is a classic example. But the real question is: who feels betrayed when these lies surface? There are two types of listeners: the ingr

(Trigger warning for grooming and emotional abuse) I was at my sexiest at 17. I would wear lacy g-strings seven days a week, I was fully shaven constantly, and I would rarely be seen without my cleavage on display. At this age, I was groomed by a manipulator. Someone I thought was my first love was actually just a man desperate for control, for power. Age-gap relationships are often romanticised in the media. It can feel exciting and scandalous. Lana Del Rey's aesthetic somew