UNCLUTTERED ADORATION

Hers was a tidy world, filtered through the complicated history her father made sure she had, crafting her, as he put it, to be someone’s good wife. She, the seven-year-old thought no better than to think he meant her to be his bride, a proposal if you will, because she couldn’t unlove her father, never mind he trespassed her body, whispered Never Tell. Besides, she believed in stupid shit like Cinderella and Snow White. All those happy endings.
Today, when you send me looks of uncluttered adoration. I shy away, self-hating.
But that’s not your fault.
And neither is it mine.