Christian death: not just a band
You are tired of watching everyone you know go through incredible shit and get kicked while down. You don't want to think it out anymore and you are aching. Your escape plans fall to the side; indoctrination and community group cohesion are drugs unmatched by Heroin and destroyed only by intellect. You return to the church, which encourages you to avoid worrying it out yourself, and let their soma-speak soothe you.
You keep within the flock and find yourself a nice boy from there within a few years. Your marriage starts off exciting, you're artists for god! But it is ultimately unexceptional from other sanctioned unions: your church tells you that women are best served as Man's helpmate, and even though that thinking got your mom bruises and your dreams crushed, no-one around you is speaking out about it, so you're stuck with it.
You and your Man spend your days writing and laying out godly columns for a publication supported by the presbytery. But he gets the cool Art Director work, and you get the copyediting and proofreading. As a shared task this would be fine, but as a lifetime position, it sucks.
You start wondering why you can't have orgasms and you cry when you screw, but he doesn't want to talk about it and you sleep in his arms without him staying in your heart. One day, you decide to say, "Fuck it!" (although you'd never actually say that) to the whole thing and leave. As you walk away, you think, "What a waste of my youth," and then give up the ghost.
THE END
