Letter to a Little Girl

By Kelly Grace Thomas



I write this poem,

To the little girl curled in a corner of a bed,

under the covers screaming, shaking,

who can feel the pieces of her heart breaking.

He loves me,

He loves me not.

He loves me.

He me not

into nothingness that’s met

with mosaics of regret.

Sweeping up the scars, straightening the room of what

polite little girls are supposed to do.

But who knew that the wait of crushes could crush you.

At eight, she gave him her heart and half her peanut butter and jelly.

He gave her a complex and some put downs

that would harbor this effect

She was too young to know that insults reverberate and bounce back to insulate

the person she never wanted to become.

We learn to hate ourselves young.

The hurt built city halls and walls,

that wailed in her soul of hollow haunt,

the muddy shame of insecurity

of all the things he didn’t want.

Before she could spell it, she tasted the rejection

of perfection.

Too chubby to be a girlfriend, to smart to be sweetheart

Before she was taught to love herself,

she was first asked to love everybody else.

Especially the men, yes love the men.

Worship the men.

They are always right.

Without one, a woman holds not value,

If you’re alone,

it’s because no one wanted you.

It don’t mean a thing if you don’t have that bling.

Who would buy a cow when you can get the milk for free

Men don’t like girls who talk,

 so you better learn to shut the fuck up

Your opinions don’t matter,

no one likes chatters

Just sit there and look pretty.

What’s that? You don’t know how to look pretty?

That why we have magazines, a monthly subscription

to DYI addiction,

a step-by-step direction

on how to hate your own reflection

It you can’t read, we’ll give a billboard to make you feel smaller.

Post beauty expectations

in every traffic direction.

That way you always know how low you are.

Come on don’t you want to be just like her?

Long legs, countable ribs, blonde hair.

 It could take an eating disorder, but you’ll get there.

Before she could block it, she was swimming in the tsuamni of stereotypes.

Capsized in size-2 hype, paint those lips red and ripe.

Make him want you.

Make him want you,

laugh on cue.

If he looks, smile look away

Don’t eat those French fires.

Remember how much you weigh?

Adore him.

Adore him completely butnever tell him so,

Because as soon as your attainable, his boredom is unexplainable.

Replys to texts, vanish like confidence put on clearance.

And you’re left at home, alone,

to dance with his disappearance .

I write this poem

to the teenage girl, under the sheets, with naked touch,

trying to find lips to sing her worth,

to kiss her pain,

and ease her shame.

To break her from these broken chains.

But sweet girl you must know,

the men won’t stand in line,

waiting for a chance to chase,

the race of affection,

 towards your direction

That won’t stand at your door,

if you don’t stand for more.

Because you are so much more than this.

You deserve more.

More compliments, more listening, more kindness,

they should call you their highness .

Because you could be queen of hearts, handing out love until you burst

But you’ll never get any back, if you don’t learn to love yourself first.

I write this poem to the little girl,

with tears I will kiss your hurt gone

Please know, it was them, you have done absolutely nothing wrong.

And if being yourself,

speaking your mind,

eating your fucking dinner

doesn’t make him moan

Fuck that guy. You can stand on your own.