Incoherent Thoughts Organized Into Neat Paragraphs

a series on softness part one

I spend my pre teenage nights laying flat on my back.
Pushing my tummy down with my hand.
Manifesting a hard, flat core.

In the morning I tell my Mom:
"If only we were made of clay. That way I could scrape off all of this extra stuff I don't want."

My dear mother agrees with me.
"Yes. That would make life so much easier."

We bond over our shared dislike for our soft bodies.