Miss America

I am abandoning Jesus, every decision I made in the throes of him, and all unexplored territory I sink in like deep puddles or marsh or mud baths, foam beds, especially flesh. Specially.

I am erasing vows women make and men don’t have to, masturbation lectures, pre-marital, post-marital definitions, verses backing every decision, justifying a plethora of opinions I held and rectified only to take up following super spiritual youth groups, camps, festivals. Worship was the wetness of a Tom Cruise night, a Pixies’ Brixton reformation, a Radiohead paperless extortionate worth-it bad seat tour ticket.

Every self-flagellation is the repetition of a Bourne movie, the degradation of straight to video sequels of blockbusters or semi-successes or indie movies, the impetus to kiss Emma’s boyfriend and never doing it, daring to imagine on-top-of-the-clothes -sex with him or boys or girls in my form group or the teachers, changed each year like seasons in shops, like logos, the availability of Wispas.

Open.

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