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.