Creation of man

The clay was wet, a heavy, smelling sludge, And God molded the first man from the filth. Did he wake and find his hands shaking, Curious of the meat he was made of? Did he slide his fingers into his own slit, Tearing at the fresh skin to find the heat, Masturbating in the mud of a new world, Wondering why he felt so hollow?

Then came the woman, a mirror of bone and cream. He wathed her breath, a soft, pulsing thing, And he felt the rot of envy in his gut. He saw the wet fold of her opening, The deep, dark mouth that he did not possess, And he hated the God who left him barren.

He did not love her, he wanted to consume. He pinned her to the dirt, smelling of salt and musk, And shoved his cock into her with a violent jerk, Ripping through the virgin veil of her flesh. He felt the wet slide, the tight, gripping heat, Ad for a moment, the void in his chest closed.

But as he spilled his seed into her depths, A hot, thick slurry of desperate need, He realized the lie of the union. He was still a ghost in a shell of meat. He looked at her bleeding, gasping And cursed the Creator for the gap between them.

He entered her again and again, Trying to fuck his way back into the womb, Trying to bury his emptiness in her viscera. He wanted to peel her skin back, To reach inside and touch the organs, To merge their blood in a red, steaming pile, Until there was no 'him' and no 'her,' Only a singular, screaming mass of gore.

For the first sin was not the fruit, But the realization that we are separate. We are just leaking bags of salt and waste, Forever clawing at each other's holes, Trying to fill a emptyness that God carved Into the very center of our souls.