We all have our little hells,
things we must live through without a certain end.
I don’t think of hell as some crackling, fiery place
but that time we spend crucifying ourselves
over the uncontrollable whims of life.
Hell is the knife of emotion that takes hold in the heart,
winding it’s way through the chest, cracking us open like
melons—draining our faith, our hope, our light.
Hell is threading ourselves back together,
only to be broken open again and again.
But I’m not convinced hell is a destination.
Hell is a token we polish with our thumbs,
a daily reminder of what must be endured—
to live, to thrive, to prosper. We pocket the coin,
carrying with us the stain of life.
We’ve gotten so good at feigning its absence.
But I like to honor it, the darkness.
I remind myself that it cannot be escaped, only tempered.
Hell is an inevitability, tethered to our bones,
present simply because we live.
Hope is the choice—
that thing with feathers which carries us on.
Lauren Michelle Brock 