And She’ll Never Fucking Know That

You can’t change things with single words or poetry strings or scripts or novel length deliberations on governments and the time: now, then, sometime, always. But your naïveté’s nice, and I mean that sincerely, like in the sincerest, complimentary kind of a way I can say it. And you don’t know how much I strain, how much I’ve been straining.

Once, I thought it mattered to say something, like existence was precious and you cupped it like holy water until it ran out and when it did there’d be more just different.

There’s not more and change isn’t a real thing. It’s one of those fallacies they bring you up on so that you don’t shoot yourself with paintball guns, pellets, staplers. Same as the prince to save me, men dying for me, education setting free, ever afters and un-earthly places. Holidays we might actually afford.

My degree has bought me ready meals, Mars bars, my Masters has wasted copious paper bundles – CVs, covering letters, internship requests, funding bids, and ideas, ideas, ideas.

When I was ten I came top of my year, not just for one subject, but everything, and I might’ve missed out on scholarships to schools who’d have advised me better. And maybe I’d be a doctor now, like a proper medical one, and I’d fucking fix somebody in front of you. That’s what healing is, anyway, not just a Biblical story but a credible career.

But I relent. I give it up. Because that many learning years leaves only a few and I earn now what I earned in 2004. Change is not something I’ve known. And we’ll be dead soon.

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