Holy

How Adam caressed the snakeskin that enveloped Eve and let her blood stain the earth. How dare you compare your idols to the man and woe-man who bore the world. He held me and caressed me, and I trembled, skittish as a dog in a thunderstorm, holed up in a place I didn’t dare believe was safe.

Holy. Holy. Holy.

Not this time. Not kneeling in front of a toilet trying to purge the sins of mankind from Atlas’ body. He himself claimed to be the bastard child of Christ and Atlas, like all his illegitimate daughters peppering the earth, like the track marks on our embroiled, addict hearts, like the perverse

lipstick stains on my bed sheets, how we swore we’d never hold each other simply out of fear of starving again. For she said she’d rather be hungry than physical, and I told her of sickly skeletons in the closet. She said it didn’t matter now that we’re proud, out and about, and on our separate ways. So we hungered for each other on our own, and
I contemplate clawing the flower off my skin to let its putrid heat warm the rotten body. Instead, I pluck the petals off one by one.

Will I?
Will you?
Won’t you?
Why don’t you?

It never mattered to me. Just a carnal retribution placed on a child’s unstable heart for all the sins of the men God never intended to make.

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