Let Me Motherfucking Love You

You can make a decision to love someone. I’m not saying I did this, but old exercise books have eligible men’s names drawn inside of hearts and popularity drove it, made it happen. It wasn’t a fateful, no choice in the pick, but an attractiveness scale and girl group to impress. They thought they were The Spice Girls. A tribute act doesn’t have to even look like the original, going by the ones I’ve seen, but maybe that’s England all over.

You were a decision in word only so I made a moat and rewrote cards I’d already written so you’d think my words weren’t meaningful.

What I know I suppress, and it’s only in the dreams I reveal my bent bra hooks to you and the hanging threads from my one pound Primark pants. And I want a worse judgement, to put-off, but yours is a fascinated face and when I wake up, I sense the wait in the seconds the clambering would’ve taken and I want to dream-learn, to dip into the memories of the dreams I did have. Instead, I end up in the ones I’m already dead, getting ready to die again, pursued, consistently, by the mighty and wrong.

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.