"Things I Will Tell My Daughter"

Second chances are for those who will chase hell blind for your last name. Who plant

their feet between the walls of your esophagus to keep from closing in on days you find

it hard to breathe out pretty things. Who will crawl into bed to hold you and whisper,

“Just breathe in baby. Breathe in.”

The problem with being poor is that we never have the upper-hand in love. Our hearts

become tied to our worth and offer it like common apologies. Pace yourself, darling. A

smile is enough for now. The right man will knock on your bolted doors bearing gifts and

ask for your heart, as if it were the only thing that could quench his soul’s thirst.

Heartbreak is inevitable. Daughter, take precaution. But detour signs still lead to your

heart. When it hits, it’ll hit hard. Months from then you’ll still be reeling from the

knockout. Never quite sure if you’re healing or numbing. But I swear there will come a

day where you will learn to laugh again. I will show you how.

Who told you, you are too much? Or too less? Look at the sun, will you yell at it for

burning too high? Will you blame the moon for being too small? Let me tell you this— I

did not know beauty wore my face ‘til the first time I held you. Your soft lashes fluttering

with every explosion happening a million light years away.

Days you don’t feel like brushing your hair, go out in rain boots, even on sunny days.

They will make you feel like an adventurer. Go treasure hunting in thrift shops and

second hand bookstores. You will feel light. Oh so light.

Color rose petals between the spaces of your spine. Plant seeds of self worth for your

tears to nurture. Give yourself things you need that men can not.

The world is not always kind. You will learn to strike with quick succession, to cut

throats. Do not fold your body in ways it was never meant to be tucked. Do not become a

doormat for others to wipe the dirt from their feet off on.

You do not always have to be ladylike. Your perfectly lined lips weren’t meant to wrap

themselves around mirrored truths. Or to pleasure boys with. But rather for enunciating

your name.

Poetry arrangement by Sydney Kim