Heal your wounds, Dear Girl,

so your daughter

isn’t born

with the same ones.

She does not report her rape

because neither did her mother or grandmother;

in fact, they did not call it rape

they called it sex

and sometimes love.

She does not report her rape

because she has never been taught

that her body has value

and her voice has worth.

She drinks to soothe the pain

that lived in her mother’s heart.

As much as we might hope,

we are not so different from our mothers.

Her pain

is my pain,

and my pain

is my daughter’s.

To break the chain of trauma

heals a constellation of wounds.

They do not speak about the tragedies that have come and gone from their four walls.

As if silence is more palatable

then the words that need to be spit.

In silence, there is trauma,

legacy passed down from seed to embryo to the first beat of a heart.

To break the chain of anger

you need not bear it

on the back

your mother built for you.

She tears down others

because, since birth,

she was taught

to tear down herself.

To get through it,

you must go through it,

and yes

it will hurt,

but you—

you will survive.

Split open your wounds for me,

I know how to heal them.

One silky word spills from my lips,

I know how to heal them.

I have healed my own.

I have cut them open

just to know they were real.

And I have sewn them up

just to know I could.

If you feel consumed by your trauma,

seek healing.

For I once believed

I could never let go

of my demons,

and now I live with them,

trailing behind,

visiting them when I want

but only when I want.

How do you bear

what you cannot bear

so beautifully

it makes it look easy?

At my most broken,

I saw beauty

in just one thing:

looking at the pieces of myself

scattered and shattered,

I wanted to be put back together.

Dear Boy,

when you touch her, remember your power

to love or to break.

When you touch her, remember you may watch porn, but you are not in it.

When you touch her, remember her body was born from a mother like yours.

Dear Boy,

your hands leave imprints,

visible or not.

Remember your power to love or to break.

We all have a shadow side,

I just never knew

his was so dark.

I am still guilty of fighting my body

to fit a standard of beauty

that is attainable only with

surgery and starvation,

and yet

it’s a battle

I can’t seem to stop fighting.

Cruelty comes from our very own wounds.

You might believe the words you speak are weak,

but the echoes of words

can start revolutions.

Use your words to mend­—

you and you alone

hold all of that power.

Growing up,

the world taught me

that vulnerability should be a secret.

I grew up believing

that the hero of a story

never showed signs of weakness.

I disguised my demons

so there was no sign of struggle.

My vulnerability is not my weakness;

it is my superpower.

I wear it like a cape

and watch mouths gape

at the sight of

a warrior

wearing wounds like crown jewels.

My vulnerability

is more powerful

than wielding a sword

or a shield.

No one teaches us that

resilience rises like a wildfire

from pain.

The battles you fight do not take away

from who you are.

Dare to teach the world

that weakness doesn’t exist.

Weakness

is just a seed

that no one sees

sprouting into genius.

Own your story

like you wrote it

by yourself.

You are the hero.

The hero is imperfect.

Wear those wounds like crown jewels.

You are leading a deeper life now;

it’s not one that you’ve chosen

but it’s deeper.