If god calls, or your mother does, be ready. Actually, you’ll be ready because your beliefs are fated and the voice said early, “This is your craft,” and every youth group ministry meeting you’re interviewed at, you start with, “It picks you,” and “You just know,” and “Calendar plots,” and Sarah says, “Fate,” and you say, “Yes,” and you’re a stage-floor second connection close to a marriage proposal as you’ll get and “Is she young enough” is a consideration, eventual concession, and century old vampires should want for elders not wives, but cliche prevails relationship-wise and 17 is a prime number. A missionary’s mission is never over.
You sold us all out, thinking you were her rescuer, the only one looking for her. And for these years, 154, you’ve waited, sure she was stuck, and aside from seeing mortals play out succinctly, you’ve meditated only on her release and how you’d orchestrate it.
But she was never in there. And she never once returned to tell you that. She could’ve called, written, texted if she knows how, but maybe she doesn’t. Not all technology’s an easy sell when you’re set on something else entirely.
She could look like Madonna now, and I’m never completely sure how Madonna looks now because she evolves quicker than tap water: some days it tastes like chlorine, others bi-carbonate. There’s salt collecting in your teeth dips.
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.
I’m an uneasy clasp and you’re a herb-avoider, and we’re an unlikely pair and we’re respective losses, respect each other’s losses, because we’ve accidentally left precious organs and keepsakes and cash in carrier bags which people mistook for trash and the reluctance to touch tongues is a high-school seventh heaven humiliation in a full changing room of half-dressed girls coaxed to strip by gym teachers who understand hierarchies better than history teachers. They paid their way through college with a retail-job-string, know that sentences are misleading, that there’s no greater nihilism than high-street fashion, and once you’ve sold a sweat shop jumper to somebody’s husband, there’s only one other challenge and that’s a simple button path to a treasure spot on a map Emma drew at 12 when she said, “Fuck people so they like you.” But it never worked for her really. And I’m a nervous undresser, and I imagine one day you’ll be a George Clooney-type, in your own entirely, and I’ll sew curtain hems until the fabric fits windows perfectly. I’m the girl that once seemed more than her worth; a cup of rice feeding a village for 20 cents.