Life, in hindsight perhaps, through Ilse's eyes. No sleep in heaven, or Bethlehem.


And it shouldn't matter

because

this life is never what you asked for

And no matter what, these wounds are never worth it.

So why break only one bone

an arm, a rib, a heart,

Why only one when you can break your whole body?

So at least you lived as much pleasure as you did pain.

And maybe

Far in the future

When weeds chain your ankles so you can no longer walk,

When the earth breaks your knees so you can no longer stand,

And more roses have slashed your skin than graced you

their petals only poisoned the wounds never closed,

And your body harder broken than you ever were by

his fist

or their easels

or that pistol

the father who forced himself inside a body too small

or the boy whose soul was too constricted by all of them

unreachable

Maybe then, finally you may explore the more lovely summers of heaven

A haven

And that pleasure will feel richer

For once, innocent

And something quite close to bliss

In comparison.