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