There’s bugs.

There’s no bugs.

Yes, there are. There’s so many that I can’t breathe. They’re in my chest. Under my skin. They got in through my ribs.

There are no bugs. You can breathe. You’re talking to me.

…

What are you thinking?

I still can’t breathe.

Yes. You’re talking, remember?

Yeah, but I’m not breathing. I’m crying.

Just go to sleep. The bugs will go away.

It’s too bright.

It’s not. It’s dark.

What if they are bugs, though? What if that’s what’s inside? I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe? What if there really are bugs?!

Are you there?

Wake up!

Please?! There’s so many bugs…please, I can’t breathe. I can’t…

It is not like the stories.

It is not fire and brimstone

and burning flesh.

It is not cold, dank depths.

Endless darkness.

Endless terror.

It is not what you thought.

It is a warm room,

your favourite room.

You sit between all the ones you love,

touch their flesh

and they will touch back.

You can talk and laugh,

it is always light,

it is always warm

and you are never, ever tired.

It is not what you thought.

Time doesn’t move slowly,

or quickly,

or at all it seems.

You do not change.

Your lover never leaves.

Your mother always smiles.

But somewhere,

it could be years

or a few minutes

into that warmth,

somewhere you start to wonder.

It could be fast,

like blinking while the light changes.

It could be a like a stone hitting your back.

Or it could be like poison.

Slowly, so slowly you do not remember

when you first notice,

everyone begins to repeat themselves.

Not like playback, not like puppets,

but like a child who has not read past the first chapter

of a book you wrote.

And they are all agreeing with you,

all the time.

You may try to test this-

shout obscenities and curses-

but they will only smile.

It is not what you thought.

There is warmth here,

and you are never tired,

but those around you have no depth

and you cannot leave

or sleep

or hide.

A smile is a smile is a smile,

is now just lips pulled over teeth.

You may try slap it from their faces,

the faces you love,

but they will only laugh.

Finally, you are in a world

where everything is comfort and safety,

and a friend who always laughs,

and a lover who will never leave you,

and a mother who is always smiling

but are they happy?

Can it be love if they have no other option?

No option

no standard

no meaning.

It is not what you thought.

It is not hot iron,

burning flesh.

It is the ache of never knowing,

of endless doubt in those around you,

the ones you love most.

It is your fear,

and your love for them,

and the emptiness of their servitude.

It is not what you thought.

The room will always be warm,

they will always smile,

and you will spend forever wondering;

can it be real

can it be good

if it never ends?

#wetpetals

The demons bring out their whips—

Skeletons are brought to their knees

A place that seems to have no end—-

With blazing infinite flames~~

It has a ruler~

She marches around....

Checking in on things...

Once taken down there..

There is no way to escape.

Shrieks of agonizing pain ring

Like a loud GONG!

A lamenting song,

There’s no way to tell time there.

Always dark & gloomy,

Full on spooky——

Welcome to Hell.

#ABYSS

You know everything about the doublemint. How it tastes and squishes under your teeth. How a bear would certainly not take one and how you would certainly not offer it to a bear. How you could chew it for hours like a drug until it tastes nothing but stale and your own saliva. It was both the mint and the heaven - all flattened out into a single strip of gum.

You know everything about it but ironically it's all you could think about. There is nothing to do here. Just you and an endless space of darkness. You thought there would be fire and all that screaming and crackling flames were what would make this place exciting. Not the most livable place and certainly not the safest, but you expected to find something here, its own sort of beauty perhaps.

But all you want to do now is chew some doublemint like you did when the boring teacher would walk in. All you could think about now is how you want to float away from here and bump into a planet or rock. Or just anything.

This empty darkness has its own sort of beauty, but you never thought it could make you so afraid, so terrified because you could do nothing at all. Everything is forbidden here, except thinking. And thinking is hell on its own depressive way.

And damn, you know all about this already.

Loud, a painful din

hovering on the verge of deafness

no escape, no sanctuary

crammed in your little boxes

fetid air that doesn't circulate

thick with the rank odors

of fear and the unwashed

but sits in sullen oppression

still tasting of its last user

but offering no relief

the moment when

your stomach drops through

the floor, and keeps going

chest tightening, eternal windlass

lacking release

twilight, just dark enough

to be almost alone

but still able to hear whispers

rustlings always just beyond

the tiny circle of light

the feeling of knowing

you could reach out and take

a hand, a heart for comfort

never have to let go

your choice whether to relinquish

unless another is reaching

at that moment

towards you with iron grip

wanting order, control

knowing there'll be none

unless by force

a force you feel swelling

under your skin

but are too scared

to use

being scared of caring

of being inescapably tied

to these flimsy moorings

but being more afraid

of not caring at all

of what would happen next

being stuck

with the thoughts, the people

the problems, exquisitely aware

of the trap and yet

unable to break free

seeing a spirit being broken

& not having the words

to help

seeing the good and kind

get short shrift

knowing full well

what's happening

a powerless observer

watching the days blur

as life accelerates

brake lines cut

unwilling to jump

or maybe incapable

long days and hard hours

laboring against

all the little worries whose weight

slowly wears down, erodes

like water on granite

lines skindeep hiding

a bleeding heart

youth gone too soon

life, until

the sun comes out

or you close your eyes

and lean

Hell is lonely.

No one to hear your cries.

No one to tell you

“Everything will be ok.”

Even if there were someone,

Being comforting is pointless.

It won’t be ok.

It won’t get better.

You will suffer forever.

Hell has no love.

No one to care.

No one to hug you

Or remind you

You are special

You are wanted.

Because in Hell,

You are not special.

In Hell, you are not wanted.

Hell is nothing but a reminder

Of all the mistakes you made.

Day after day,

Year after year,

It’s the same.

The same pain.

The same sorrow.

Forever.

There’s no escape.

There’s no hope.

Your life is what it is

And it will never change.

Hell is being stuck.

There’s no point to anything.

You can’t fight.

You can’t get better.

You can’t fix all you’ve done

To deserve this fate.

Hell is giving up.

i hate when it’s 5 o’ clock

its time to go home and hear my wife rant and rave

oh, no, she’s not a mental patience, but a lovely one

she’s so buzy with appointments, and so fussy

no time to cook turkey on thanksgiving, so she orders

expects me to arrive at home at shark 6 or she calls office

i need to shower at 6.30 pm or else we wont have sitting dinner

her business associates arrive at 7pm and we need to have champagne

desert and coffee is served at 9pm and the guests need to depart at 10pm

we need to sleep by 10.15pm and i cannot touch her because she has on

a stupid face mask, that she needs to keep till morning, i hate it when

she wakes up at 6am and goes for jogging and comes back at 6.30 sharp

i hate it when she cooks pancakes and refuses to kiss me because she has on

a Mac lipstick or else it will get ruined, i hate it when she drives away

and i sip my black coffee with one teaspoon of sugar, as per her sugesstion

i never call her at 10am and we never meet for lunch and i always see her

face on the business magazine cover and she looks so proud and confident

and i just wish that she noticed me for once that we miss our lifes together

and i hate it when she foregets my birthday and it’s like hell when my mum

calls and says, i have dont a good job and that she’s proud of our marriage

if lying to your mum about a happy marriage is not hell, than i truly dont

know what hell is all about, and i wish my mum would forever stop calling me!

Hell is my mothers body, scorching beneath the hot summer's sun.

Delirious, she whispered brokenly to me,

that she was so tired of the earth and the pain it had to offer.

Delirious, she moaned to her children that she wanted to leave them,

to join God in his eternal kingdom.

Delirious, she growled that I was a burden.

She told me she had stared at the sun for hours, naked, in an attempt to climb Jacobs Ladder and leave this hell behind.

Hell is my father's eyes,

beholding that his daughter is not the little girl he loved anymore.

It is my father's voice, asking what happened to the little girl

who ceaselessly dreamed of positivity, progression, change.

The girl who wrote until her left hand was covered in graphite as she

wrote her dreams on random scraps of paper.

Hell is my answer, when I scream to him that that girl is gone,

and what I really mean to say,

is that I'm not sure she ever truly existed at all.

Hell is a drunken night,

held down by rough hands

and a foggy morning trying to figure out how to get home.

Hell is my mother's body,

scorching beneath a hot, hot sun

and praying to God that her life will be over.