Hell is in me because I was born in January, after the birth of Christ and before the day of love, in the awkward shadow of the new year where optimism finally stops dripping from the broken faucet and is followed instead by an emptiness that was only known to God before he spread out his hand to create the world. The Devil held me in my first moments and pressed his thumb into my wet, blood chest and planted a flame that would keep me warm throughout the winter.

Hell is in me because the fire never went out. It grew quietly, and then wildly, and then quietly again until it made a small home out of burned tissue and gasoline in the cavity protected by my ribs. It was so constant, there was nothing to do but feed it and hide away.

Hell is in me the way that I know that Heaven is in you, because you were born in March when spring is just a babe being woken up gently by its mother, eyes still bright and kind. You had no need for something as dangerous as a flame, no need for a person like me to haunt you throughout your day-to-day errands. But I come before you in the year, and I kill what you plant in the ground when I come back around.

Heaven is in you, even while you sleep. I can hear its song pass in each one of your breaths and heartbeats when I rest my head on your chest, making sure not to rest too much weight on you. I could crush you, I think, with the weight of all my despair and sin. Hell is heavier than Heaven. That's why you'll always float above me, and I'll be the first one of us to be buried six feet underground.