daughter

i will raise a daughter—

one whose lips will be chapped and her eyes

will glitter like gunpowder, not like the stars—

one whose hands will be calloused, not soft

and her knees will not buckle

at the thought

of a common fear—

one whose beauty is in strength,

and she is not bound by the ever-tightening

ropes that wrap around her femininity,

choking out

her love for the color pink

and the expectation that her hands and heart are gentle—

one who is not perfect or pristine

and her skin will not have the gleam

of woven silk—

one who will not know how to sing;

notes will not flow through her throat

like an angel’s melody

or a soft, gentle wind—

one who will not question herself

or the people she loves

or the people she’s been.

i will raise a daughter—

one who stands tall and strong,

her feet grounded

in her own reality.