Thinking of getting this poem tattooed. I’m thinking on my arm or down my ribs (yes it will hurt like hell, I know, but I already have a tattoo on my ankle which is supposed to be one of the worst too so).
To my future daughter,
I’m sorry for all the hurt the world will inflict on you.
I wish I could protect you,
But I can’t.
Instead, I will teach you what my mother failed to teach me.
i. You are more than your body.
The world will tell you, you are nothing but lips and curves.
Only thigh gaps and soft brown waves of hair.
They are wrong, baby.
There are universes in your eyelashes,
Worlds caved into your ribs.
You are entirely too big for your body, for this world.
Your world is held together by skin and bones, but you are more than the stitching at your seams.
You are wonder.
And beauty, all in one.
ii. The world is at your service.
Never let anyone tell you you cannot be anything you want.
Honey, you might not be able to be everything,
But you sure hell can be something.
Be an astronaut, if you want to see what the world is like away from all the noise.
Be a doctor, if you want to know what its like to hold a beating heart in your hand.
Be a teacher, if you want to see true wonder in those around you.
Be all of it or none of it.
The world will be what you make it.
And you can make it how you want.
iii. Please don’t resent me for when I try to protect you
I wish my mother had taught me to thicken my skin,
To hold my breath around bullies
And not let them see me bleed.
I wish I’d been taught tough love.
I walked down hallways with a hood of slurs covering me, tears burning acid on my cheeks.
Instead, I was taught unconditional love, which is great but it won’t help.
Not when it really matters.
It won’t prevent the scratches you draw across your arms when times get tough.
The blood drawn will heal with kisses, slowly, but they will still bleed.
iv. Befriend the outsider.
Because, my darling, we are all the outsiders, some are just outsiders together.
The girl with the pink hair has a story behind her eyes as well as her tattoos.
Take time to listen to it.
It might shift your world a little bit.
The boy with the acne always running, running, running.
He might be running from more than his problems.
Maybe his mind, maybe the love he doesn’t know how to show.
He might let you run with him, if you ask.
v. They’re going to leave you, whoever they are.
A friend, a lover, a companion.
They will say they won’t - but they will.
And that’s okay.
Your heart will wither when the door slams on his way out.
Tears stream down your face when another message remains unanswered.
That’s okay too. It will all be okay.
Not at first, but eventually.
Because we are all on our own journey and maybe yours don’t intersect anymore.
Life is big and messy but sometimes it’s not big enough for all of us.
So, do it all.
Be tall with short hair.
Short with purple hair.
Loud with a small voice.
Small with a big heart.
Be anything you want, baby.
Be it all.
Because this world is yours.
And what anyone else says doesn’t matter.
And you are made, grown and built to conquer it.
I stare at him, running my hand through his hair
His voice chokes, “Maybe we’re just not meant to be”
The thought had crossed my mind. But some how, saying it out loud gave it validity.
I pictured the other boy, how I would run my hands through his purple stained hair. I guess he and I weren’t meant to be either.
“Maybe no one is meant to be with me.” I whispered back
Okay but I genuinely just want a sweet boy to cuddle and kiss a million times all over and bake for and hold hands and do all that sappy cliched shit like museum/gallery/park dates. And I’d take photos of him doing cute things or nothing at all and write poems and draw tattoos on him and we could go on walks and play music and dance and fall asleep together one day we can get a dog like who’s down because I AM SO FULL OF LOVE AND AFFECTION