my limits were pressed
first, lightly,
as flowers between the pages of an old book
then forcefully, as it shuts

there is no entirely benevolent being:
god, must know, suffering.
he placed us here, knowing
that our capacity for feeling was not
as it should be

there is no plan, destiny, reason
just another layer of purgatory
just hearts that crush too easily
just monsters that look, and sound, like men