You were born of insecurities with the weight of the world on your shoulders as your first accessory
Counting their opinions in your head next to your calories
You were taught how to stay quiet before you could even talk
Sharpen your tongue after your nails because it is your best weapon but cut yourself on it when you are forced to hold it
And wear heels to reach the sky but never tell anyone that you did
The weight in your bathroom tells you your worth before your weight 
You were born with a ocean in your chest but it threatens to drown you when you open your mouth to protest its rising waves
The stars created your crown but their points dug into your skull
You were the perfect girl
as long as you didn't believe you were
—  No one ever talks about the sins of the mother
She’ll come into your life soft and quiet, like a winter storm, and lift you from the ground like she’s handling fine china. She will pick out the glass shards pricking your body and marring your skin, and she’ll bandage your wounds with care. She’ll then wipe all the soot and dirt from your cheeks as you nudge your face into her tender hands. Finally, she’ll reach her fingers, ever so softly into your chest, and warm your heart from the inside out until it beats anew.
—  tell-my-mother-not-to-worry, A Thank You Letter to E.