Holy

You told me that God made us,

Each and every one,

In his godly baby factory.

This head fitted to this neck

Fitted to this shoulder

And this breast.

A method,

And not a madness.

The madness that drives teenagers to do it in the dark.

Later, you told me

It was actually eggs and sperm

Replicating and dividing in the womb,

That less godly baby factory.

You told me how I came out with blood and cried,

Cried about the madness.

The madness that drives teenagers to do it with a gun.

You told me to be greater than the parts that made me.

Imagine my relief to decide God is a part.