Daughter of gut and blood and sinew, of bold and becoming, of banshee scream — when you are asked to dim, when you are asked to bend, to break into pieces for their amusement and condemnation — spit instead. Do not endure pettiness and politeness like the good little girl you were taught to be. Daughter of shit-thrown-in-your-face, of stiff back and stiff upper lip, be immense, be sensual, sexual. Call it a pussy. Call him out. Call her your lover. Grind when you are asked to gird your loins. Daughter of no-expectation-and-even-less-opportunity, this is where you careen, car crash into their belittling. Drive with one hand, the other slung across the back seat, jeans low on your hips, lips poised on fuck. Daughter of Fucking, fuck hard. Love hard. Be unyielding in ambition and your desire. When they come at you with their too-pure thoughts and  pitchforks, do not capitulate. Bare your breasts and your brain. Become what they fear —  they of the too-big dreams, in their too-small worlds. You are not small. Daughter of you’ve-got-big-boots-to-fill, wear spiked heels, gold glitter, thongs that slide up your ass. Remind them they can kiss your ass. Daughter of damaged pretty people, get ugly, get sweaty, stink up the room. Smudge the grit on the bathroom floor into the cracks. Suck back a cigarette and call it lunch. Aim for strong-as-a-bull. Swig whiskey from a paper bag. BE. Daughter of wanton and wanting, want. Want it all. When they tell you to shrink, show them the biceps you gained from lifting chains off your back. Choose your lovers the way you choose your wine. Drink deep. Daughter of it-sounds-like-you-have-big-plans, leave your little town with its little people and their little debt portfolios. Wrack up the credit cards. Buy a boat and sail the seas. Hike Nepal or Stanley Park. Daughter of goddamn-I-want-you, let them beg. Take your clothes and armour off. Only you own your skin. Take up burlesque. Lay naked under the willow tree. Read a porn magazine while you write the PhD. Daughter of mine — your story will not always be the same. In the mornings that come after this and the mornings that come after those, you will laugh out loud, shape your name around a bullet and fire, back, at everyone who decided  your worth before you’d even begun.

Rayanne Haines (she/her) is the 2022 Writer in Residence for the Metro Edmonton Federation of Libraries and a best-selling author of three poetry collections - The Stories in My Skin (2013), Stained with the Colours of Sunday Morning (Inanna, 2017), and Tell The Birds Your Body Is Not A Gun (Frontenac, 2021). She hosts the literary podcast Crow Reads, and is the VP for the League of Canadian Poets. Her poetry and prose have been shortlisted for the Canadian Authors Association Exporting Alberta Award, the John Whyte Memorial Essay Alberta Literary Award, The Robert Kroetsch Award for Poetry, and the National ReLit Award for Poetry. Tell the Birds Your Body Is Not A Gun won the 2022, Alberta Literary Awards, Stephan G. Stephansson Award for Poetry.

Image by guille pozzi @guillepozzi