Heaven whispers on the calmest Saturdays. Sundays belong to Hell. Neither says much, but when Hell speaks, the ground trembles— and I bleed fever, vapor, Arizona iced tea.

It asks, What’s that blood doing on your hands? Is it yours? Is it yours? It tells me humans are built for evil, because we have eyes, tongue, and teeth.

When I bite into lemons, I don’t taste citrus, only summer— and summer is always sweet. I dread it the way I dread the next time God might speak.

I long for Winter. Please stay. I flourish in icy sidewalks, blistered fingertips. In Winter, Hell is quieter. And Heaven can’t reach me.

Somewhere, sometimes, I remember the grief I carried at five— watching my brother burn mashed potatoes, then explain why as we scrubbed the pot. No, it wasn’t because he lost track of time or didn’t know how to cook. Maybe he liked feeling our father’s fist against his cheek. Maybe I did too.

Back then, I traced the imprint of a punch like a love note. Now, I say cruel things and walk like I’m searching for trouble. When someone hits me, I know that it is exactly what I wanted.

I bought a $1 soda and a pack of playing cards so I can play speed with Death tonight.

We’ll share the soda. I’ll pour some into my hands, offering him the can.

He’ll watch as I try to drink from my palms, but it slips through the cracks of my fingers, staining the white dress I also bought for $1.

When it’s gone, Death will ask if I’m still thirsty.

I’ll tell him no, that I’ve had enough.

We’ll sit on the roof of that building my brother climbed when he was seventeen. I’ll mention that I’m almost seventeen too— but not really, because I just turned sixteen, and I am very afraid of growing up.

Death says there’s a simple solution for that.

I don’t ask what it is. Instead, I ask if my brother still gets birthday parties.

Death tells me I’d have to ask God.

I say that’s fine. I don’t want to know.

He tells me over 150,000 people die each day and asks me to calculate how many that is in a year.

I start counting— the alcoholics, the dreamers, the almost-pilots, the escapers, the almost-soldiers. But I lose track and end up calculating how many flowers bees dissect in a year, and whether they ask permission before sinking into their flesh.

My legs go numb. My heart grows tired. The soda seeps into my dress, sticky against my skin.

But I know my brother is doing fine, wherever he is.

Because he is brave. Because, like a firefly, he carries light wherever he goes

Guilt hits with the first gunshot, with the first scream. No matter how many cotton balls you shove in your ears, they still ring with the sounds of death.

When you reach heaven, God will explain it to you. He will tell you why it had to happen, why the bullet flew a certain way, why it struck the heart directly, leaving not even enough time for the thought— I might live. __

He will trace the lines on your palms, just as He did with His son the first time He saw him. And He will tell you— it was never your fault. You didn’t have to be here too.

You will close your eyes— and always, you’ll be there. You will open them— and cry.

I have a secret. The rain doesn’t bother me as much as I said it does. I am not one of Satan’s spawns, my skin doesn’t glow red except at midnight, and my hands crave no evil.

Don’t let the rain fool you. Does it chill you like it chills me? I am trapped inside this bubble— let me free. I see the news unfold, I can’t breathe.

Is it better to be trapped? Better to fall in line, slip into the crowd, hand on my head, thumb between teeth, doe-eyed, docile?

They know nothing of survival. They’ve never tasted asphalt on Devil’s street.

They don’t know what it’s like to be us. They shove us back and say, “Don’t fuss.” Stay in your bubble, swallow the rust.

I am trapped in this bubble— let me free. I am suffocating, I am dying— I beg you, please.

I want to run, there’s so much left to see. I want to escape, I want to breathe. I want what was promised, what I deserve, what we stand for—

Peace.

Ezra wasn’t always like this.

He used to flinch at the sight of blood, hesitate before stepping on a bug—and still whisper apologies under his breath afterward. He used to be good. But now, when he sees stray cats clawing at the garden, he doesn’t shoo them away. When someone shoves past him on the subway, he doesn’t excuse them—he wonders how easy it would be to shove back, just a little harder.

The change is slow, without a clear cause. A few lies here, a cruel thought there. The first time he smiles at someone’s misfortune, it feels foreign. The second time, it doesn’t. By the third, it brings him something close to euphoria.

Even his appearance has changed. His sun-browned, slicked-back hair is now messy, overdue for a cut. The khaki pants and collared shirts he once favored have been shoved to the back of his closet. And his eyes—you couldn’t not notice the change in them.

Once a deep navy blue, they’ve darkened into something else entirely. Almost black. The shade of emptiness, of something rotten. The shade of what you’d imagine evil to look like.

But am I saying that Ezra Callahan is evil? Not exactly. Don’t take my word for it. Just pay attention.

See how he lets his milk curdle in the warmth of the house, how he leaves his toast in the toaster for too long. Watch as he leaves every faucet dripping—just enough to drive you mad trying to find the source.

Then, notice when he stops sleeping at night. When he spends more and more time in the backyard, digging.

Check his room. Find the magazine cutouts, the faces, the blackened eyes. Find the kitchen knives—every last one, missing from the drawers and hidden beneath his bed. See the smudges of red on the floor, the headboard, the walls. Tell yourself, it’s not what it looks like. But know better.

Then—check the backyard. See the pale sliver of bone poking through the dirt. Feel vomit rise in your throat. Decide something has to be done. Turn to grab your phone—then freeze.

See Ezra standing there, a smile on his face.

Hear as he asks what’s wrong—but he doesn’t give you time to answer.

Because before you can, he lunges.

And just like that, you’re buried alongside the stranger who used to have a life.

But no—I’m not quite saying Ezra is evil.

Just… notice the warning signs.

And do something before it’s too late.

I was born two decades ago, screaming in Morse code, hiccuping gunpowder and milk. I was the bullet chewing through my grandfather’s skull, which was actually a watermelon, which was actually a door, which was actually my mother’s ear—where I now live, whispering: he isn’t dead, he isn’t dead. she wrings her hands, twisting out the ocean until her tears are dry, until the sirens choke on their colors, until the lies set themselves on fire.

My parents say I am brave. The angels in my nightmares say I am brave— but listen— they say**—** stay in your grave.

Everyone’s afraid of you.

I drink the stars like apple juice, but they taste like vodka, like spit, like the voice of—you know who.

I bite into lamps to see if God is watching, but all I get is fluorescent grief, light leaking out of my ribs.

It is time I stop speaking His name. I know nothing of Him. We are strangers staring at each other through a two-way mirror, pretending we don’t exist.

I only leave my grave when I’m drunk. I walk through the streets past men with red hats, their eyes sealed shut with glue, their mouths full of static.

My parents say I am brave. The mosquito sucking my blood says I am brave. Now we’re both drunk, laughing into each other’s veins, while the angels tug on my shoelaces, and drag me back to the grave I keep forgetting I belong in.

The wolf swallows its howl. The night unstitches itself from its teeth. It moves in reverse, dragging its shadow over the frostbitten ground, paws erasing its prints. The bullet slithers out of its chest. The hunter waits, death heavy in his hands. He watches the wound knit itself shut, fur smooth as ice. The heart sinks back into the ribs like a stone. The hunter walks backward into the trees, the night remains still. The moon hums. It says nothing. It says: I will purify you.

The man in the green hat spat into the dirt and whispered into my ear like a lover, “I think we’ve won.” He carried his body the same way I carried my gun, words came out of his mouth like bullets, and he was the only person I’ve known who could kill with words if he really wanted. Walking away from the field, I felt fire on my tongue, tasted the juices of a clemetine sliding down the back of my throat like glue. I imagined this was the way the sun would taste if you sliced it open. I imagined this was what victory was: tasting all the death you’ve seen and still being alive. No dead man could eat the sun, but I could.

The year begins with cheers and glee, A fresh start with so much to see. Newborn hearts, resolutions take flight, January whispers, “Embrace the light.”

The shortest month, love in bloom, Valentine’s Day dispels the gloom. Winter starts to lose its sting, February dreams of early spring

Winds awaken the sleepy trees, Hope emerges with the warming breeze. A month of sun and fleeting rain, March is caught between joy and pain.

April’s laughter spills in showers, Painting earth with vibrant flowers. The birds sing, the days are sweet, Life dances to spring’s heartbeat.

May arrives with a golden hue, Windows glisten with morning dew. A peaceful month, no frantic race, Take your time in nature’s grace.

June teases summer, skies pristine, Endless fields, a luscious green. Days feel balanced—slow and bright, The world is growing, steeped in light.

July ignites the summer land, Fireworks burst, colors grand. Busy days and starry nights, Everything feels bold and right.

August hums with insects’ songs, Fruit hangs ripe; the days stretch long. A golden haze fills the sultry air, This feeling is rich and rare.

Leaves blush red in September’s skies, We near the end—how fast time flies. School calls our names, the season turns, Summer fades as autumn burns.

October cloaks the world in fear, Pumpkins glow as ghosts appear. Winds run wild through trees untamed, The chill is soft, yet autumn’s claimed.

November brings a sharper chill, Feasts are shared, and thanks are willed. A quiet hush rides on the breeze, Sweeping softly through the trees.

December gleams with festive glow, Softly falls the season’s snow. A year concludes as it began, with cheer, Winter wraps the fleeting year.