Be True

I’m going to raise rambunctious kids, all gum and gumption, spit; spirit like a Coke can exploding. Fizz but not much liquid, ultimately. Because mess is always less than you prepare for, and worry, thermal thick, defines days deeper than watches, and hearts can’t handle uncertainty. Mine can’t, anyway. Cliffhangers get to me. I don’t want to skip every exchange that makes this great like stage plays or Shakespeare or limited release movies which only play cities because small towns haven’t got time for, or all they’ve got is hours and it’s harder to schedule when silence lets your head breathe.

What I’d give to wake up without headaches, questions, regret, concern, my heart on a butcher’s shop polystyrene tray waiting to be bought because someone forgot to stick the sold sticker tight, so it sold twice. And nerve pain. I’d give my leftover dimes and Hello Kitty jewellery box filled with last year’s Topshop rings to find the sort of peace those 8 people in yoga class have, when all I can think of is dinner, ex-boyfriends, cinema times, puckered thighs and the lyrics of all Katy Perry songs.

If I raise kids, when we have them, and if, I’ll only have advice like, “Don’t date a guy ’til you’ve seen all 6 seasons of Sex and the City; skip the movies,” or, “Don’t do what I did, whatever that is,” and, “Let love make a fool of you.” And that last one, I’d say twenty times, even if it’s a lie and I didn’t do it, enough.

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One Step From Maybe, A Tiny Nudge To Yes

You vowed not to be easy but minds change quickly and swearing something sexually is a bad move. Promise rings are Vaseline-begs and abstinence lectures are dating seminars in which you’re sure to find you someone you’ll like. Sure, they’ll never sleep with you but you can sleep with yourself until somebody does. Until someone wants to.

And each incantation was a basic lie, which meant every word meant less, somehow, until you could say something false, outright, without consequence. It was basically god’s work.

Conversion never worked. Was an awkward blushed-face ready meal which wouldn’t cook despite following the package instructions. No-one flipped simply like sermons suggested. Instead you were a hive-causing itch that everyone wanted to extricate which made it very tricky to get laid.

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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Testing A Theory

I always thought unlikely happened, never saw it, and prefered it that way: it’s easier to believe something you can’t see, don’t know, sometimes.

Instead of laughing at your jokes I gave you square stares until you knew I’d absorbed you like Disaronno, pretty quickly into my bloodstream. I disagreed with you wherever possible, and even though banter or fake hate is a sign of relationship angst, I was more subtle than that. Business like. I was the pencil and you were the bitch.

You played along to a point until I couldn’t read every answer or underlying signal or subtitle and the plethora of meanings you gave out on any one day. The flutter of doubt sank me afternoons, post-midnight, whenever I’d watch Titanic (more often than I’d like, or you).

I hold tight, meditate on incomplete sentences and post-it note hand overs at end of night shifts you start as I leave or vice versa. If we switched bodies I’d make my move faster. The potential’s just hanging in the air like a 3 day old helium balloon, not spent yet.