I remain cakeless. So the phrase "she has cake.', when apllied to me, is indeed a cruel fiction. A portrait of a world that could have been instead of a world that is. An ecstatic phantoms of an alternate reality in which love is commonplace, and the gods who reign over life are not cold and brutal. An impossible dream of hope fulfilled and the machinations of dysfunctional societies overcome.
But no. There is no cake for me. And that is the cold truth of my lament.
Ooooh, lay her down In her gingerbread coffin She's so pretty All laid out in white Lay her down In her gingerbread coffin When we need her She'll rise to the light