And on the second day, God separated night from day so all her future creations would know when to work and play, and when to sleep and have sex. Granted that never stopped them. They got hungry and craved the light on their lover’s cheeks. They fucked in parks and cars and in front of their children so one day she created the flood, but that comes later. I remember your sweat like tunnel vision. I breathe it, hold it hostage in my lungs. I like having you inside me again. A man once told me women were meant to be filled by men. I didn’t believe him until you came.
And on the third day God created the sea so she would have something to wash herself in. Cleanliness is Godliness. I don’t wash myself. I’m afraid if I do I would disappear entirely. My skin would drip off runny and phosphorescent. Or I would lose you completely. You would cease to exist in or on me, I would shed all the skin that knew yours. Sometimes I stare at my skin to make sure it continues being skin. I read somewhere that the cells that make up flesh take 27 days to regenerate and then you are new again. I’m at day six, I’m terrified what I’ll lose tomorrow and that’s why I don’t sleep. If I don’t sleep its almost like time isn’t passing. It’s almost like there is more than just me and my skin. It’s almost like you are here too. I count it’s trails and mountains the way I used to count yours, I watch it grow and fold over me the way you did. Sometimes it sprouts leaves or branches. Which reminds me,
On the fourth day God created the trees and plants and although she never told anyone she believed these to be the holiest of her children (because they were the most beautiful and never moved or talked back). She created strong ivy to suck the life out of anything and sweet succulents to decorate the deserts with their white powder. I dreamt of a house covered in English Ivy but you said it would disintegrate the brick so I grew some from my nail beds and threw it at you. I was mean, I shouldn’t have done it, I’m sorry.
On the fifth day God created all the animals, we had a puppy named Mary, she spit lava and could also grow moss from her eyes but only I could see it. I loved her. But she bit you and drew blood and I loved you more so we sent her back to God, or was it the pet store? Is there a difference? Sometimes I dream of her running around in heaven, with mountains of kibble and uncooked steaks. Sometimes I dream of the moment where your skin was not enough and your insides swooped out and Mary lapped up the copper blood like I lap up my own. I wonder if she too makes scarlet paintings in her mouth. Probably not, she’s just a dog.
On the sixth day God created man and the broad of their shoulders and the thick muscle of leg and Adam ran around masturbating because he could. When I miss you it is the silhouette I miss the most. The muscle, the straight line of spine. I want to run my tongue over the arch of your back, make the skin split, draw blood like Mary. In my head I pull your limbs apart like petals off a flower. I’m just trying find some life in you. Some he loves me he loves me nots crying to a heartbeat. There has to be some life left. There has to be. Some nights I go out naked and cry until a man with your spine comes to comfort me. With him I resurrect you.
Later on the sixth day, after God saw that Adam was a mess on his own, running around and ejaculating onto the beautiful new world, God took away Adam’s pesky rib like I would take away Mary’s bone when she bit. From the rib she made Eve who was softer and smelled better and unlike the plants and fish was okay with Adam ejaculating on her. Later, God made us hurt to have children because of an evil groundhog who convinced Eve to eat a pear. My mother said if humans remembered pain women would stop having children and the human race would die out, but I remember. The night I woke up with our daughter in my arms, small and bloody, a tiny alien I had let come out too early, and you kept crying how there was blood every where, you kept crying about I had lost our baby. Like I had misplaced her. I remember how you slapped me when I said it was her fault she ran out too early. Maybe it didn’t happen but I remember it. The baby, red and slimy and small enough to fit in my palm. You wanted to hold onto her forever. I thought maybe this is my rib, maybe God is only taking this small alien from me to help grow a new person but you buried her. It was fall because you were drowning in the leaves, trying to reach the dirt. Or you were drowning in leaves because it was fall. Or something. There were so many leaves in so many colors and I stood at the window and watched you come back inside with black fingernails and empty hands.
I was sad about the baby but not as sad as you and I didn’t know how sad you were because I have been sad my whole life so I thought that was the end of it. It’s spring now and I’m half expecting my baby to bloom from the spot in the backyard. Grow into a big and beautiful tree that is the best child because it doesn’t move or talk back. At one point I probably would have told you dead babies don’t grow into trees but Mary could grow moss from her eyes and I could grow ivy from my fingernails so who says? I say could because I don’t know if I can anymore. The last time I did was six days ago when you caught me sneaking out at night to water our baby with a tin watering can. We fought and I threw the vines at you and you hung yourself because I had let our baby run away and become an alien instead of a human, or because I was watering it into a tree so something alive could come out of it like God intended, or because I left the empty milk carton in the fridge, or perhaps because you too had a sadness as deep as the space before creation inside you and I was too busy drowning in mine to notice, too busy to give you a baby shaped like a ladder.