Jordyn Morris

a letter to my future daughter

i know you are strong and i
know you know you are strong.
i can see it in your eyes, the
fiery determination and
passionate heart that i
know i passed down to you from my
own mother and hers and the
line of women before her. 

but as you grow older you will
see that there are those who do
not always appreciate the
strength of us.

there are those who will
scream at you across the street
about your legs or your chest,
constraining your being to your

there are those who will try to
control what you do whether
it’s with your body or with your
mind because god forbid a
woman has sex more
frequently than a man; god
forbid a woman rise higher up
on the corporate ladder than a
man; god forbid a woman do
something a man can do. 

you must not let them put out
the fire in your eyes like they
did to my grandmother.

instead, let their words add fuel to
the blaze and continue to
fight for the right to your body,
the right to your actions, the
right to your mind. your
powerful soul sewn and
patched together by the women
who came before us cannot and
will not be tamed. 

and as i write this to you, i fight,
hoping that you will never have
to experience what i describe
here, hoping that you will read
this one day and think that it
sounds like a dystopian novel in
a universe far away from yours. 

but, my love, if the fight doesn’t
end in my lifespan, i fight
hoping that it ends in yours. 

stretch marks

when i was a young girl zeus came down to earth
and placed a hurricane in me rain filled my eyes
fury howled around in my heart and clouds floated
into my mind 

when the calm finally came and i had grown into
the grace of a goddess he struck me with lightning,
and smiled. a reminder to never forget where you
came from.

now, when i stare in the mirror admiring the lines
he left behind i can’t help but smile for i have been
blessed with the power of a storm 

the colors of me and you

they called me pink. did you know that? they called me pink. like it was a
bad thing. dainty, malleable, girlish. weak. they called me pink until all i
saw in myself was pink. their pink. 

when you touched me, i saw purple. did you know that? there was blue
in your smile and laugh and eyes. i knew you were blue, through and
through. and i was pink. so we were purple. 

when i cried, i felt gray. did you know that? you picked me up and wiped
away my tears and it was purple again. and i was okay. i told you i felt
pink. and you kissed my forehead and spoke: 

my darling, you are pink, but not in the way you think you are. you are
pink in your smile and cheeks, in the softness of your skin and your heart.
you are pink in your footsteps and words. being pink is no burden; it’s
beautiful. but you are not just pink. 

you are also red, my love, in the fire of your soul and the strength of your
stance, in your eyes and your passion, in your determination and strength.
you are so much more than just one color. do not reduce yourself to

now, when my heart beats, i feel red, and i smile. did you know that? and,
when i look in the mirror, i see pink, and i smile. did you know that? and,
when i look in your eyes, i feel our souls melting together, purple purple
purple, and i smile. i think you knew that. 

About the author: Jordyn Morris is a 17-year-old writer, actress, artist, activist, and overall creator from Coppell High School in Texas. Her work has been published in school literary magazines and has also won local awards. She proudly identifies as queer and she is an intersectional feminist. Jordyn writes her poetry to share her experience and struggle as a girl who loves girls, and to bring confidence, strength, and power to women and the LGBTQ+ community.