#19

Maybe my hell will not be
in a sea of flames
or eternal punishment.

Maybe it will be me
placed in an empty room —
all sides bright,
and the sense of left, right, up, and down diminishing.

Maybe I will be left alone there,
left to contemplate all the sins I’ve done.
It will be so lonely.

Maybe I’ll also be given a book where I could draw
and a pencil I could use to sketch.
I’ll only be given one page a day,
and by the next day
what I wrote or drew will all vanish.
I’ll learn a lot in the few days, weeks, or so.

Maybe after a year I would’ve rivaled great artists,
but only maybe —
maybe if I could remember everything I ever wrote and drew.

Then a day will finally come when my mind begins to play
tricks on me, who is supposed to be tormented.
Maybe they’ll begin to speak, scream, and utter my name and nonsense.
Maybe I would’ve believed them by then.

After many more days or so,
maybe I would’ve forgotten what I look like.
Then, as more time passes,
maybe I would also forget what a human actually is,
save for limbs and the hairs growing from my face.
By then my hands, too, would play trickery
on me, who must be punished.
And I would’ve forgotten which is left or what is right.
Maybe then I’d forget how to count.

Oh, there will be many pages around me,
all blank —
they will stare at me vividly —
viciously —
painfully sharp,
as if their very stares cause me paper cuts.

Maybe I’ll scream.
Maybe this is what hell feels like.

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