The Devil Has Your Face

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.