He made me into a god; only calling on me before the impact.  
Did my lips taste like salvation?  
Was there holy water between my legs?
My body is not a place to be baptized in; if you want me, want the messy, fierce rush of blood that floods my cheeks.
We cannot be reborn, our flesh is not divine.  
Ours is slowly decaying matter.
Touch me like I’m rotting.