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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

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