My Laminated Heart


I stand patiently before the laminator: “I place this into you so that I might use it again.”

There is a warmth, albeit synthetic, that soothes the heart on a cold, cold day. Looking out of the staffroom window over a playground with corners of crumbling asphalt, the comfort of those bars of heat set the teeth on edge as much as they warm the bones.

Our administrators stalk the corridors (as human as they strive to be) and count the correlations, distilling our interactions into a cordial of best practice.

There is a warmth to us both, if only we could find one another: the co-mingling of our tears as we behold the disintegration of a panopticon – well, that would be fine.

Until such time, we circle one another. Until such time, I place a part of myself away from scrutiny and do what I always do.

From what I ask the laminator to protect my heart, I do not know: “I place this into you only so that I might use it again.”

Was it something I said?

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