Dear daughter,
This is not a story, it’s a truth I’ve lived,
So sit, take a breath, and hear what I give.
He called me a cold flower,
Frozen petals, bold as steel,
He said I was too distant to ever heal.
Too cold, too harsh,
To feel anything warm,
Yet I clung to the lifeline,
As if it could transform.
But wait—he called me a flower.
He really said it—a flower,
A petal crushed by cruel winds,
With beauty hidden in the darkest hours.
It was your grandfather's voice,
His words that trapped me in a cage,
A compliment meant to shine,
But it only fueled my rage.
And so it began,
This slow unraveling of me,
Now that I’m healed, I can see.
Now that I’m strong, I can speak.
Now that I’m whole, I can preach.
He lied, he shattered,
The delicate girl I used to be,
One careless word turned the tide,
And I became a mother before I was free.
At 17, I grew a life inside,
A flower turned to a heavy vine,
My belly bloomed, but my dreams faded,
The future I had was left behind.
Crop tops replaced by long, hidden gowns,
A student’s world buried under a crown,
Of motherhood that came too soon,
Your father became my silent moon.
The flower I once was
Withered, no color, no scent,
A dry leaf lost to time,
A soul bruised, bent, and spent.
I’m not telling you this for pride,
But for the shame I cannot hide.
I was that young hottie, naïve and bold,
But I’ve learned—this truth must be told.
I share this story to protect you,
From falling where I once fell,
To keep you from the trap of words
That could turn your heart to hell.
You, my daughter, are my gift,
A treasure far more than I was then,
Thanks to God, my strength, my will,
I raised you, and I will do it again.
Don’t deceive me, don’t let the world
Weigh you down, twist you to its will,
You are a creation of love, of hope,
A heavy trophy, a heart to fill.
Though not born from my own history, this poem bloomed from the echoes of stories I’ve imagined, witnessed, or absorbed through the world around me.
“Fleur Froide” is a fictional voice—a mother speaking to her daughter with raw honesty, reflecting on a life shaped by wounds, survival, and love.
It explores the quiet wars women fight, the legacies they inherit, and the truths they pass on.
Sometimes, imagined stories carry real emotions. This is one of them.