They call you a monster, and you learn early that the word can fit inside a whisper and still slice like glass.yes
You press your veil to the left side of your face as if fabric can erase a birthmark that runs from your cheekbone to the edge of your mouth.
In the church of Saint Bartholomew, pity floats louder than the organ, dressed up like prayer.
“Poor blind groom,” they murmur, and you hate yourself most of all for believing it.yes
You believe it because believing it makes your life simpler.
If he can’t see you, then you don’t have to wonder what he thinks of what everyone else sees.
You don’t have to watch his expression change, the quick flicker of discomfort people try to hide, the polite smile that never reaches the eyes.
You can marry a kind man and tell yourself it isn’t about your face.
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