Rain of Mortality

By: Zoë Christianson

 I killed a tree writing notes last night,
 but the question ravaging my mind
 does not relate to the fine points of progressivism.
 Even I, as little as I live, am too distracted to get this right.
 I take a seat on the steps of my porch
 and let the rain run the glue out of my hair.
 I take pleasure in ruining the only part of me a nameless girl cares to love.
 I think I shall do nothing these next few weeks
 but sit here and wait for spring.
 But there might not be a spring this year.
 I haven’t decided if I like me enough to stick around long enough
 to find out.
 I am guilty of so many crimes inside my head.
 With one more year of parental supervision
 everyone around me
 is starting to come clean.
 Some girl loves some boy and blah and blah
 but they’ve only had sex, blah blah
 but never made love.
She wonders if premarital sex makes her a whore.
She’d better do it again
just to be sure.
Every step of the way, she’s asked me if I’ve ever known what it feels like
to want someone,
to not know if I’ll be strong enough
to say “no.”
I ask her if she’s ever read the story of my life
and she reminds me that I haven’t written it yet.
One more thing I have to do
that requires too much time,
too much paper.
She tells me that she still loves Jesus
But she can’t go back on forsaking God