Hell

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.