Work.

Standard

‘Work’, they call it.
Not maths, not english,
Not history, nor languages,
But therapy.
The act of healing oneself,
Of trying to put back together
the broken pieces of yourself,
With glue you were never given
And have not yet successfully made.

I could argue
There is maths in it –
During no other hour am I more aware of
Time, on a ticking clock.
English, too:
Creating my very own thesaurus entries
For horror, pain, loneliness.
History seems apt,
Though someone once told me
History is written by the victor,
And that doesn’t seem to be true here.
Finally, languages.
Where else could I learn to speak the language
Trapped inside my heart?

Oh yes, it is work.
No textbooks, though.
No study leave.
This is not work in a ‘9 to 5’ way,
Not in a ‘TGIF’ way,
Not in a ‘it’s the weekend, let’s forget’ way.
No.

It is unrelenting.
Exhausting.
Hard.
There are no sick days,
No holidays,
No bonuses.

Just me,
Her,
A rabbit, a blanket, some story books,
And ‘the work’.

Relentlessly.
Running through me like a river,
Either reinforcing or eroding the struts of my life.
I am not sure which, sometimes.

I work towards a goal I am not sure of,
A reward I do not want,
And a life I cannot imagine,
Because that’s what I do.
It is who I am.
I work.

We tell children that hard work pays off,
But I am so, so tired.
Please, from these dark nights of aching relentlessness,
May the brightest stars be born.
Let a beautiful night sky be my reward,
For the years of work in darkness.
x

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