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Dear baby,
I don’t know how to say this to you.
We’re coming from generations
of women who deserved better.
Who loved like healing
and smiled like lightning bolt.
Always watching the door slam
and gently waiting for a return,
gently waiting for someone to say sorry to,
gently waiting for someone to come back.
Baby, people wear bravery differently.
Baby, I hope you don’t forget to leave once the love starts emptying you.
Baby, I don’t remember if I cried when
I saw my mother’s heart break for the first time,
but I hear pieces of it still haunt that Brooklyn apartment.
Baby, don’t let anyone turn you into a phantom love affair,
into an aching ghost or something to be mourned.
Baby, love yourself like you’re not waiting for
someone else to do it.
Baby, have dreams bigger than the hurt.
Take the Sunday mornings and take
the bad nights and take the changing leaves
until you aren’t homesick for something better.
This wicked thing that’s got it’s hands inside of you,
this wicked thing with its claws and its fangs
that tells you that you must love what doesn’t love you right,
baby, you’re stronger than all of it.
Baby, I promise to still love you on the days
that you think you aren’t.
Baby, I promise to still believe in you
on the days you can’t believe in yourself
and on the days you think you don’t have a reason to.
- Y.Z, for my future daughter (via rustyvoices)
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REBLOG PERMALINK fvjk:

(via swarinq)
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nunderwater:

kids that mix their play-doh colors are the reason global warming exists

(Source: andrewbelami)

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