01/08/2023
Sometimes, I write poetry. Here is a concept coming from a recent dream:
One day, my daughter Spawn will come to me and ask:
Mama, can I get my ears pierced again?
I will abruptly stop from working on whatever and look her in the eye:
Baby, I'll come with you so I can hold your hand while you get it.
Spawn can have her ears pierced, or whatever body part she wants,
Because her body is her temple
And her concept of beauty and decoration
Is nobody's business but hers.
Spawn can have her skin inked on whatever body part she desires
Whether it is to enhance something already ethereal
Or to hide something damaged in her mind
Or maybe just for the dopamine and the fun.
My daughter is a product of generational traumas
Of women who fought for survival and for their children,
And these generational traumas were and still are
Stripped slowly around the pole
Leaving Spawn and me already half naked
But in peace.
My daughter is Aurora,
blessed by Maleficent and the other kingdom witches
For they are the ones who truly know
What a woman in this world needs:
Love, respect, peace--
And magic has yet to yield a man who can provide all three.
And when Spawn still insists to find something so elusive,
I'll let her be because maybe
There's enough magic in the world to find one.
But when she doesn't find the One,
I will abruptly stop from working on whatever and look her in the eye:
Baby, I'll stay with you so I can hold your hand until you get it.
But today, Spawn does not ask for anything
But my love and attention,
And I will be giving her that, and more:
The strength in a heart so soft that
it weeps for those who try to weaken her stance,
The calmness in her words that it pierces
the chest of a weakling who have no rebuttals to say,
The power in her confidence that the undeserving
would fear and not dare touch without permission.
Spawn is a kid, but not just a kid:
She learns a lot from her Mama.