Next youth group
is completely different.
Jonathan’s small inside jokes
about marshmallows and “moo juice”
that normally get me giggling,
are pushpins in my chest,
puncturing our best Polaroids.
Instead, awkwardness
hangs heavy
in the air,
signaling something’s wrong,
so he won’t be shocked when
“we have to talk”
at the end of the night.
His expression is grim
as I lead him to our private spot
between the church’s two brick buildings.
Our make-out space
that I am here to vandalize.
I tried writing a note.
But the warmth and humor
that leaked from my pen,
made it seem like a joke.
It feels like one.
Why am I breaking up
with my own heart?
Blinking, I see myself
on the beefy arm
of the cute popular boy.
And know I need
to release Jonathan.
Cannot cheat on him,
not for one second
not even in my mind.
I stand, facing him.
No game of telephone.
No folded-up note.
Only crossed arms
and anguished expression.
Everything in me
wants to slow time down . . .
wait . . .
I’m not sure . . .
I force the words “this isn’t working”
through my lips, each syllable
a lie.
This has been working fine.
One week ago, he was the best part of my life.
Like a prophet, he asks if I like someone else.
I hate how dirty it feels
to nod yes.
I wasn’t trying to.
Jonathan is so understanding.
We share a miserable hug,
fight off tears, and my mind
flip-flops frantically. I wish I’d known
our last kiss would be the last. Want
“please one more?”
But his expression
turns him into someone else
who looks at me
like I can’t be trusted.
He says it’s
“not a good idea,” and I
pretend
to agree.