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Jonas Wanted to Be Good

Jonas wanted to be good. His bed made a home of crumbs and ash, mistakes staining the cloth.  His past made a home of his bed. Jonas couldn't help himself. Jonas wanted to be good but he wasn't ready to be free.  Jonas bled regrets. The gauze of chemicals saved his wrists. Jonas broke himself to have pieces to play with. He preferred his own company to that of his companions. He kept quiet.

The people would find him strange if they knew that he was desperate to spend his nights blessed by solitude. Be polite. These people are your friends. These people will be your lovers. You must give them your time. Your time is never yours to keep. These people are your friends.

She was in love.  He was disgusted by the ease with which she surrendered. She was good. Jonas left. She is bad now, crying out to krokodil.

It didn't suit him to feel shame from the ghost of her glutted heart, wasted on his ambivalence.  He swallowed his wail and found the sun. He was looking for the moon. He settled for the sun.

We can never be good. We will always be misunderstood.


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'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

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Hope had left the gun on the table.

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