When I become a mother,
will I wear my mother’s skin?
Will her words slip into my mouth,
quietly, like inherited lullabies?

Will I make my daughter stir pots and knead dough
not to teach her how to nourish herself,
but because one day,
she must serve others before she serves her own hunger?

Will I tell her,
don’t wear short clothes, they attract eyes
instead of telling her
your body is not a stage for anyone’s gaze,
your choices are your own.

Will I ask her to keep her hair long
because long is desirable,
and not whisper to her,
cut it, braid it, shave it
do what makes your head feel like home.

Will I tell her to silence her roar,
to swallow the fire in her throat
even when she’s bleeding from the inside?
Will I teach her to speak softly,
so she’s called nice instead of whore
when she refuses to bear the world’s rot in silence?

I am afraid to become a mother.
What if my reflection becomes hers?
What if I pass on the cage
wrapped in ribbons of tradition?

But then
I breathe.

If I become a mother,
I will build her a world where defiance is not sin,
where kindness stands shoulder to shoulder
with fury.

I will teach her
that love is vast, unshaped, and hers to define.
That she can laugh loudly, live wildly,
and her worth is not measured by folded hands
or lowered eyes.

I will raise a daughter
who breathes because she must,
not because someone told her to.
Whose posture is her own,
whose voice cracks open skies.

I will raise a gentle soul
with fire in her bones,
soft hands that hold,
and a spine that never bends to injustice.

.    .    .