I don\'t want a daughter,
for what if she turns out just like me?
Labelled as dumb,
’cause she is always numb.
Standing alone in a corner,
’cause she feels like an outcast.
Feeling the ugliest,
the dumbest in the room—
learning too early
to shrink herself
so no one notices the shaking.
What if she grows up
apologizing for her own existence,
mastering silence
the way other kids master laughter?
What if she learns
to smile only with her lips,
never her eyes—
because that’s safer
than letting anyone see
how easily she breaks?
What if she becomes the girl
who loves too gently,
trusts too quickly,
and pays for it
with pieces of herself
she wasn’t ready to lose?
What if she carries my softness
like a curse
instead of a gift?