A Shadow of My Past

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