letter to my son, if i should ever have one

First of all, I don’t care who you love, my son. A man or a woman,
or someone who would rather not be defined by labels like a soup can.
But whoever it is, whenever they’re upset,
you’d better hold them in those two arms so hard every dark ocean
pours out from inside their body and is replaced
by twice as many sunrises climbing up their skull.
Use all that socially-constructed male strength for something good.
My son, on the days when your fists curl as tight as piano strings
and all you want is to batter another hurricane-proof body
until the glass walls smash in, don’t you dare lay a finger
on anyone around you. Not even yourself.
Punch those pillows until the bloody stuffing pops out like internal organs;
go howl outside with your knees in the dirt
until the wolves confuse your cries for their own.
But don’t ever mistake violent thoughts for violent actions.
And don’t be afraid of feeling, son.
Swallowing pity and shame and blame and self-hatred like stones
will only weigh your belly down and stretch the skin I gave birth to
to the point of breaking. Never break yourself to remake yourself,
because feeling is not reserved solely for women; it’s a human concept.
I hope one day every waterfall in the world is terrified
of how fiercely and quickly you love.
I hope every landslide is in awe of the way you’re able
to put yourself back together after collapsing into a pile of rocks and mud.
But don’t you ever touch someone without love, my son.
Don’t you ever mistake a woman for a mosaic you can fuse into something whole again
from all her broken pieces. She can build herself back up without your hands.
My son, be true. Cherish every scar. Dream of lassoes instead of nooses.
Do the dirty work to get to the clean feeling, and don’t let your head
get too heavy for your spine, or every other bone will crumple.
Love til the marrow disintegrates, and nothing less.