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


“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.

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