To my future husband
Please be kind to my children and me.
Yes, this is another obligatory essay
About growing up in a home with daddy problems.
This is another poorly written anthem
About wiping the tear stains from my baby sister's soft cheeks
She was a naive ten
I was a vulnerable thirteen
And I told her he didn't mean it
When I honestly wasn't sure what he meant that day.
Protecting her became my duty
Because he wouldn't do it.
And my mom seemed to be his string puppet.
So please, be compassionate to that younger sibling
And lift the burden off the elder one
Who, no matter the force at which the blade is thrown,
Will always jump in front of it to save the baby.
Please understand that their mom has baggage
I have been used by more men than I can count on one hand
And defiled in the worst way by two.
Please be gentle
Understand that having *** with the lights on
Will only drag me into the pit
From which I have just recently emerged.
Understand that I will only be able to see my older cousin's face
And suddenly will once again be a helpless seven year-old child
Reaching for love and protection
Only to be met with disappointment.
Understand that I will look at the rolls on my body
And instantaneously be ashamed
Because I have been told by my own father that this body is not worthy of acceptance
And my eating disorder increased the intensity of that voice twelve fold.
Please, when I am drowning
Do not walk away
When your seventeen year-old daughter asks where you are going
Don't say
"Just out."
With so much hostility and contention in your voice
That it may have well been a brick breaking the surface of her skin.
For then, she will begin to detach from you
The glue that formed your loving bond when she was little
Will begin to break and fall away
She will start doing homework at Starbucks
Just to get away from this incinerator home
That burns her flesh to ash every time she walks through the door
She will begin meeting up with ex-boyfriends
Not because she really wants to sleep with them
But because she needs somewhere to run
Even if the place to fall is not soft.
She will think she is pregnant
And will know clearly who the father is
But will tell you something different
If it ever turns out to be her reality.
She will become so angry with you
That she scratches your name on her wrists and inner thighs
Tallies up each time you have called her
Fat, slutty, ******* up
Each time you have rejected her
And when she is recovering from this vice
She will not blame you
Because you do not deserve the satisfaction of knowing you hurt her so intensely.
So, to my future husband
Wherever you may be
Please just promise me one thing:
You will not be like my father.