A letter to my daughter


Baby when you are four years old you will cocoon yourself in blankets with hopeful eyes glued to the screen with scenes of Cinderella, Snow White, Aurora- each with their prince charming. You will molt your cocoon, hoping to be a butterfly when you wake. Sand will be dusted in your still dreamy…


Sometimes we hold hands when we fuck

because we can be as rough as we want
with each other’s bodies

but me holding your hand is my way of reminding you

that I’m nothing but gentle with your heart.