So you fall in love with the church girl (the one who isn’t gay)
She’s Splenda-sweet salvation, preened by her parents, who do everything in a -ly way: welcome you hesitant-ly, talk about you loud-ly, watch you knowing-ly before you know why. Your church girl is daisy socks, French braids, smiley-face pancakes. She’s citrus shampoo and vanilla lip balm, your first kiss, only for practice. Every friendship bracelet, a rosary. Every handhold, a new sin. Your heart is an offering she doesn’t want, so God blesses her with a boyfriend. You weep holy water tears, a pure that burns, and baptize yourself in hellfire until every part of you she ever touched is reborn.
Regan Puckett writes short and strange fiction from the Ozarks. Her favorite ghosts haunt her local bowling alley. Her work has been recognized by various competitions and awards, and her stories can be found in/forthcoming from Cleaver Magazine and the 2021 Best Microfiction anthology.
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