Lost Seed: An Abecedarian for Fatherless Daughters A man did not father us. The daughters of no man, sailing without ballast, use mirrors like maps to match our faces to pattern-less shado
Chest stabbed by the dagger of absence—morphing us superhuman. Daughters of no man invest an eternity praying for a stone’s heart to enliven—but these dead rocks pound love into no one. Knotted & lumped up, fatherless daughters explore other options. Attracted to holes, we often marry ghosts. My sister’s the wife of the wind now. Her first husband was a hung solar eclipse. I’m convinced we birthed every demigod in existence. Invincible but it stings, having our nuclei pinched when we’re tortured and jinxed witnessing a father leave a shiny kiss on his baby girl’s forehead— killed and reborn with this solstice, surviving by eating our tails like the serpent; grateful for the full stomach. It’s a prude and common misconception that daughters of no man become rebels/ strippers/ or toxic/ never settle/ because of how seldom we meet our fathers—some are lucky or sometimes unlucky (16/ still a virgin /and he called me a slut). Our pain isn’t always for pleasure—it’s the opposite. As mutated martyrs, giving quietly is our default superpower. Ripping the shirts off our backs/ ripping the skin/ gifting the bone and the marrow, never expecting a single thing back—self/sacrifice like it’s normal because we’re indigenous to a world all-maternal, universal holders of wisdom & light, father made us unequivocally humble. And we brave storms knowing we are the rainbows. Voyagers searching for one thing, conquer everything else on the way. Afraid, we—lost seeds—grow in whatever dirt we land in, we’re proof that the X-chromosome is resilient. We do our best and break cycles with the Y-chromosomes of our children. It is written; women will rebuild the city of Zion in our Sacred Feminine image.
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