I Have Seen Hell

I have seen hell.
Not in fables,
not in flame,
but in the cavern of your mouth,
where rot nests between your teeth
and every word you spit
smells like something that’s already died.

You walk like a man,
but even shadows know better.
Even carrion turns away.
Even vultures have standards.

You wear hate like a halo,
crown yourself with cruelty,
dragging every soul that loved you
into the same black pit
you call a heart.
But it’s not a heart.
It’s a furnace.
Fueled by bitterness,
stoked with bone.

You don’t speak—you hiss.
You don’t love—you leech.
There’s nothing inside you
but the echo of every woman you ruined
and the screams you call silence.

You are decay
with a driver's licence.
A virus in skin.
A sermon with teeth.
And every breath you take
is borrowed
from something holier than you’ll ever be.

I have seen hell.
It is not fire.
It is not heat.
It is you.
Unrepentant.
Rotting.
Still calling yourself love.

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