My reflection is you, a knife born cold, sharp
I watch you as a child so few will want to lay down
and watch the world burn
from their bedroom
I always walk behind men who didn’t teach me how to be a father
How was I Supposed to do this?
I see you
My daughter hiding in the rose bushes
Ladders leading to bedroom windows
A shadow of my past
The wound is usually someone else’s
My love was never enough
I couldn’t touch the whole of it
For now, every daughter has a cage around her head
and a father on the cross
What father leaves you for a knife?
Chooses his god instead
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