Control Of The Next

The reason I broke up with you is I had Jesus to think about. And I wasn’t over Kevin and even though you said let’s work through this together, and that’d be a totally romantic gesture now when shit’s more spreadable, I had Jesus to think about, and the nag to get out of my brother’s room (where the computer was) was him and Kevin calling was a mysterious way of his and songs playing at opportune moments (Coldplay at work, when I just got out of the shower) were all him, and my apologies went through his mother and I’m not sure she’d been passing them on. I’m not sure she’s ever passed them on. And that’s a waste of a million lunch breaks. I could’ve hopscotched the shit out of John, kiss chased the ass off of Kim.

You don’t know how exhausting it is having a second conscience stapled to your school shirt, or how 8am anti-masturbation workshops and purity courses will affect you until you’ve got the certificates and that’s a sanction a relationship of mine never had. And you may have been the man to date stamp it, with your bed invites and your, “you and me and us,” and your friend phrases on phones: “She likes Snow Patrol. Yeah but she’s cute, you know.” You didn’t know I was a get outter. A kleptomaniac with men for like ten seconds until commitment was a comment in a feedback box in a restaurant slot, like, let’s have sex soon, or now, and my friends would’ve done it before and I’ll maybe love you forever and even wait if we don’t have to tell anyone, if we can maybe just lie.

And if it wasn’t Jesus and his Tuesday suppers and double Sundays and Monday Home Groups, maybe I’d have done something risky. Like, you know, date you for longer than three weeks in 2004.

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