Eden

I.

You can’t remember when the rash first appeared. The little buds, poppyseed size, have barely faded since making your forearm their homestead. They were flush, defiant little things, untouchable by creams.

There’s a ritual you do that helps, though. Fifteen minutes soaking in Epsom salt water. Lit candles scented like sugared almonds. You don’t need it, not anymore, but it relaxes you. Soothes the itch.

Your eyes drift to your arm as it rests below the surface. The clotted blooms stare back at you. Blood-red, you think, like your favorite going-out lipstick—the color you’d wear each night to Club Eden, a crimson offering to God in the hopes He’d send “the one.”

Moonlight slivers through your moth-eaten curtain, and in its glow, you watch as paper wings flutter and dance.

II.

The rash spreads to your collarbone. It slinks between your breasts like crawling ivy. In some sick, slightly Freudian way, they remind you of flowers; you want to nourish them, water them, tell them it’s okay.

You inspect the growth at your vanity. The little red clusters have swollen into being, almost pulsing with life. Your hands ghost over the fields, stopping right below the abdomen.

You’re beginning to think this is your fault.

How careless you’d been that night. You barely remember his name—but you remember how his hands snaked around your waist, how far he led you from Eden. The test read positive a week later, and in four more, you lost it. You couldn’t even bring yourself to see a doctor.

Beautiful Flora, your mama once called you. She’d roll in her grave if she saw you now.

III.

The moment you felt the itch on your face, you knew that nothing could be done. Every bump has become a slick, milky pustule. The swelling smothers your body like a strangler fig. You can no longer look at yourself.

You’ve confined yourself to the mattress. It’s the only way to reach Heaven, now. A thick white sheet covers your vanity,  your curtains, a veil from the outside world. You wonder, again, if this is His punishment for that night. As if losing the child was not enough. As if every second spent repenting since the blood came was not enough. Your hands clasp together in a desperate, trembling litany.

But a sudden, sharp pain stifles all thoughts of devotion. Your whole body tightens, tightens, tightens, until you’re grasping at your sheets, pathetic and shameful and writhing. It hurts, you think, it hurts, it hurts—

but this, in the end, will be your salvation.

IV.

It takes hours for the pain to finally subside. Your breathing slows to a deadened rhythm. A white-heat haze clouds your vision, and just barely, you make out the fruits of your labor.

Newborn larvae, departing from the petalled remains of your skin. Little crescent angels. A swarming, holy Primavera.

You watch them dance, the way you once did, as you sink into His restful arms.