Nobody Starts Out To Hurt Anybody

I didn’t see a crime when I should have. Raised Catholic I’ve been taught every day’s a sin, every action is, so it’s hard to tell what’s right. And it’s a neat blur, the overlap of songs on the radio so slight you almost don’t notice it. And then you do.

And even though I see now, after the shout punch beration, I don’t know what to do, because you’re my rosary beads and I can’t stop playing with you, the statue I turn to nightly, the framed print worth nothing I question and question and question and the answers don’t make indentations, aren’t useful in a pub quiz.

If I didn’t learn from nuns, if I’d had entirely other lessons, maybe I would lie better or wouldn’t have to because I’d understand right from wrong. As it is everything is wrong wrong wrong and before you, I’d wake up, a shallow pit with a certain knowledge I’d mistaken, I’d been making mistakes. And after the first kiss, slip, zip, button, I’d wake with the same feeling, a life hangover unaltered by anything we’d done or not done.

So tell me how to figure this out. Pass me an etch-a-sketch, make me believe some things are really erasable; not everything lingers.

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