warchild | daughter in pieces | unholy fatherhood | a poem buried deep

he lived his life to the fullest


nothing else

live what was there to be lived

he had every right in his lap

he became bored

needed to step out of boundaries

he’d never be caught

never be confronted

bruised knees

nobody dared


the jolly man

drinking games


he didn’t go to war

but his daughter’s husband did


a father visits his daughter

a father cares about his lonely daughter

a father doesn’t look at the time when he goes to see his daughter

a daughter doesn’t mind if her father had a drink or two too many

a daughter doesn’t mind her father pulling her closer

a daughter doesn’t mind comforting her father

a daughter doesn’t mind her father crossing every single line


her husband is quiet when he comes back from the war

too shattered to question his wife’s pregnancy

too exhausted to see her own father’s glee


she holds on to that boy

as if it were herself

in that very moment again

as if something could still be saved

“La suicida” by Jeanne Hébuterne (1898-1920)

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