Creation: The Theory of a Pessimist

Some think that God
Shapes every human in the palm of His hand,
Making them all
Normal
Good
Right.

I do not think so.
I have my own thoughts.

Humans are mass-produced in Heaven
Flesh poured into little molds
And then roughly shoved onto conveyor belts
By little nude children with the snow-white wings of a dove.

“Harry,” one calls to his friend down the line, “it’s time for lunch.”

“Finally!” Harry calls.
“I thought this shift would never end.”

Like the creation of human beings is some sort of burden,
Something to be despised.

Harry and his friend are munching
Pure-white sandwiches
In the shade of a marshmallow tree.

“Things at work are so boring,” the first little angel complains.
“It’s the same old, same old.
Making humans on such low wages.
It’s such a pain, if you ask me.”

Harry chuckles.
“Boring, you say?
Then I’ve got a good idea.
Let’s play a prank.”

His friend perks up,
Wings fluttering excitedly.
“Oh yeah? What’s your plan?”

Harry explains his plan,
Grin splitting his chubby cheeks.
His friend agrees that it’s nothing short of
Genius.

After humans are molded,
They’re sent down the conveyor belts
To be ‘stamped’,
Given purpose
And goodness
And righteousness.

But one cheeky cherub, Harry,
Mischievous and corrupt,
Slips in a new sticker to be stamped on
An awaiting human.

It happened to be me.

This stamp fused with me
Coating every cell in something different
Rearranging the nucleotides in each strand of DNA
Making me
Abnormal
Bad
Wrong.

I wish I didn’t make mistakes.
I pray that I could be, one day,
Normal
Good
Right.

Until then
I blame my existence
My mistakes
On Harry.