| Pomegranate Words |
The war began at 5 am, so they say. {God kept me locked in a deserted hospital playing the sounds of rotting flesh through cracked speakers.} The iris constellation blacked out by a dilation flatline— that's all your eyes ever said, everything was your fault. Every eye matches up to space: we have the overlapped existence as a polished black coin flipping over our heads. But creation speaks so softly to me in dreams, it's true. [When ghosts bite down they become the pinpoint of polar decay, whispering in their distilled water voices, sounds much like fluid ice would.] Holding a tiny egg in its palm, it peeled off the layers like skin and then a gentle song: god was a tiny wren creature, clutched between forefinger and thumb, flapping and harmless, pulled from immortality to nothing but a tiny flailing thing. What did I do to such a harmless thing— drove a nail into its thumping minute heart and smiled as it bled into my ashen palm. A droplet caught the moment, cluttered it and I was back holding creation's hand, watching and waiting. A window in the storm and through I peered, on tiptoes. The Universe is a whitewashed room; pale in its infinity, vast in its whiteness— god was a single droplet of blood suspended, specked abortive waste floating, he dripped himself into a puddle: a splash; a regress backwards, back to holding matter against bone; and something human was born. It was decided that we should have a body. We were pulled shivering and vile, fully whole and naked, our skin was once so transparent: gel sheets pulled so tight across organs that our veins were seen thrashing; pulse-like tiny lights dancing underneath the surface. It all reminded me somehow of being a stillborn spirit with nothing but the stars for company, the earth is my lie. by Angela Stevens, 18, Gloucester, England |