Hell is a
cold place
where we
stand in a line
with strangers,
awaiting an
unknown fate.
You hold my
hands but
can never warm them,
and tell me a
slew of
grotesque true
stories, drenched
in blood —
Bodies hurtled
through air,
death by blunt
force trauma.
I plead with you
to stop.
I don’t want
to hear.
Around us,
faces veiled
in red shadows
chant,
“Kiss, Kiss, Kiss!”
by Emilia Koka
Emilia lives in Massachusetts with her family. She is a full-time Biology student by day and guitar-playing, poetry-reading enthusiast by night. This is her first publication.
