This poem does not have a title, because I am bad at titles.

If God formed Adam and Eve from clay,
he formed my generation from high fructose corn syrup.
He sculpted us from Velveeta cheese and the white cream in Oreos.
He modeled us on the girls in Teen Vogue and the mothers in Cooking Light
His image had grown too gray and haggard to print on those glossy pages
Too outdated to relate to those smiling faces and tanned limbs

If fruit filled the garden of Eden,
if apples weighed down the branches of that forbidden tree,
so their shiny bottoms brushed the ground in the breeze,
our garden would be full of fruit flavors.
Sour apple, sticky and gooey and electric.
Shocking taste buds with neon green radioactive chemicals

Red forty and yellow three course through our veins,
Our blood is brown and sweet from all the color fruits mixed together.
Sugar water flows like nectar in the channels of our bodies.
Food for the Gods,
slowing us down as it oozes down the path our arteries provide.
If we bleed, butterflies and hummingbirds flock to feast

Lord, have mercy on my artificially flavored soul.