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.

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Involved

I’m implicit, implicated, undeniably entwined, constantly erroneously eroded.

I watch your boat like you’re Pacey and this is Dawson’s Creek and I’m too late to run, and even if I did, your impulses aren’t thick, your eyes quick. The last time you made a decision was 2002, and even then it was only which box set to buy; VHS was an option.

I’ve made unconventional choices but not unconventional enough. I won’t wear a rosary when it’s fashionable to in case the implications are true even though I don’t think they are now. I’m hard-wired with a certainty there’s a man on the roof surveilling me, checking I don’t expose myself in public, that I’m fucking who I should which is nobody because I’m not married and even then it’s pretty questionable and Bible study’s more important. “Read it in a year,” they said.

It’s simple what I want. The undoing of shirts. Zips stopping to work. Incantation. The promise of guilt free spirituality, which is not in support of wrong doing, but evidence of the fact morality’s standalone, slipping, ebbed.

If I knew what was good for me, I’d read. And the Bible would say stop what you’re doing, listen when a man’s talking, feed periods to the wolves and die in the desert if you’re pure and deny the devil or, at least, Richard Dawkins.

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Why Are We Running?

This is denial. This is thick denial, the sort the actors on Jeremy Kyle have, the ones on Jerry Springer. I’ve been lathering it for weeks, it’s my camouflage, because connections aren’t fragile but futile and poison in some mouths and I’ve seen our families murder each other, justify it with a Bible verse. I’ve watched the world convert people, simply, quickly; Hershel stood firm and shot the heads of people he’d met, of ones he might’ve saved, days ago. Faith can catch like silk, and when you see it in light, it’s a puckered, nonreturnable mess.

I won’t spell it out. That’s not how dialogue works. Six episodes into next season we’ll kiss, and soon we’ll probably die. There’s nothing to miss and temporary emotions are easily lost calories, morsels of memories we won’t feel the loss of.