To the little girls on bedroom floor,

praying for swollen breasts and long hair.

To the teenage woman,

trading incoccence like baseball cards for

what they believe is acceptance, 

cutting inches of skirts and self esteem patterns,

I am not angry at you,

only for you. 

For my little sister, 

giving her nights to dog-earred pages of

Seventeen Magazine, 

handing her mornings to tears in bathroom mirrors,

I can remember how it feels to be you.

I remember how it feels to see yourself

as a ripe soft peach, 

only to be told that you must be dug into,

must be pitted,

must be chopped up and soaked in sugar water.

I remember what it is like to believe them.

For my future daughter,

I am doing everything I can to learn,

I am doing everything I can to teach, 

Baby, I am learning.

To the little girls on bathroom floors, 

I promise,

you will have someone to talk to, 

someday.