To the girl in the velvet dress:

When you were born You signed an unspoken contract

To agree to the silence To not ask questions To not challenge the status quo

The evidence is written In stiff photo album poses and diamond smiles In grand halls with high ceilings and tiny forks In rides on friends’ boats In itchy velvet kids clothes on Christmas morning In safety handed out like rations In exchange for pretending that everything is ok

The rules you agreed to say To honor where you came from To get invited to gentleman’s-only clubs and say Thank you To stay calm when a man Who invites you to dinner in the cigar room
Says we’re living in a woman’s world Because to slice open hypocrisy is to Slice open your father To pop him like a balloon When all he wants is his daughter to love him And watch him shrivel and deflate Then feel wrong and sorry and ungrateful Even though he’s never been sorry once

Being born May have gotten you into those hallowed halls But once you’re there You’ll have no need to write conspiracy theories because You can see what’s on the inside The world your father loves is just men basking in power, content as they are Drinking martinis and Pissing on redwood trees

But you’ll also learn Scorched by attempts at critique
That it’s safer to love your father And be grateful he loves you Than to point out what is wrong again and Light his gunpowder

So trembling You’ll settle in and Swallow your tongue

Honoring the blood pact With the man you love most

On a fancy couch by the fireplace Laughing at his jokes over oysters Breathing in ash In a velvet dress