blasphemies at the 5th street station
there is only me and you and the thing
that is trying to swallow us.
in every version of the story there is a fire:
here, burning clothes in the backyard.
here, throwing matches at the home i
don’t live in anymore. again and the
highway between our bodies, gone.
on the train, a man tells you he is an
angel and jumps off the platform.
over the screaming, you tell me you’re
starting to think there really is a god, like
capital g God. like something that isn’t
here to hurt us, just to watch us hurt.
honey, you just want something to blame
besides yourself. i get it, i’m tired too
but is there any room for safety
between the disaster of our bodies?
if there is a light then i am going to
swallow it. if there is a god then
i’m going to make him cry.
By s. osborn
s. osborn is sixteen and trying to use words to fill some kind of bottomless void. she loves cats and other people’s poetry and she probably wants to be your friend. previous publications include the rising phoenix review, words dance magazine, and persephone’s daughters. she can be found at www.allthesinkingships.tumblr.com