I do, I do, I do.

I will, I will, I will.

Ma, I would marry whoever if it means seeing you stand amongst one of the pews, smiling for I am no longer your little girl but a grown woman you helped mold with rough hands. Pa, I would let him kiss and bruise not only my lips but my whole being if it means having an arm to hold onto as I walk by a knowing crowd. Ma, I would kneel and clasp even when my knees are wounded to begin with if it means being the daughter you’ve always wanted me to be. Pa, I would bare myself and rot if it means letting you meet little mes you’ve always envisioned me having.

He, who I would let myself be held by knowing well it would be far from feeling safe. They say her’s is a vice—a serpent, temptation, a sin—let her. Air might be taken away from me, but her warmth will stay. It ruins. It chokes. It’s disgusting, as they say. Make me unabsolvable, for it is not saving that I need. What is there for me to atone for, Pa? The reality that I found love—the greatest, almost sacred—within a being whose hair is as long as mine, breasts carved, and care so divine? 

But I am a shy one. I could bark for hours, until sundown; be mailed a noise complaint, but I would conform all the same. For I am weak. To begin with, I already was—why else would I have bathed myself in sin, drowned myself in contempt, if I wasn't? Utterly weak. Until death, I am. 

Ma, Pa… 

Let me own a grave well-taken care of, rather than one left unkept; swirled by grass and dirt, my name engraved incoherent and unrecognizable. 

I promise, Ma, Pa. I will marry him. 

I do. I will.