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.