Fuck ‘Em Only We

If I state what I am, like, do, don’t, would never, you shrug and say sure. You see the hologram sticker version of me, not standard issue, and you enjoy every glint, reflect and awful detail. You’re at the edge of each sentence I say with a tailored response like you’re listening. I mean, maybe you actually are? It seems unlikely to 96% of the cross section of people we interview about it, but unlikely isn’t off-table altogether.

If you text, said you weren’t coming back, that I’d never, I wonder what I’d do. But until a person’s in a situation, can’t nearly imagine; it’s only conjecture. No one can guess, though they try, they stab, do. And their answers, like scientific revelations, I’m meant to prescription swallow according to a personalised rule set. I take advice from doctors: anything else is ridiculous.

I shouldn’t blame the judgement-ists. They didn’t feel it.

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