Soft Pink

I buy pink toilet paper, a cashmere blanket; stop hating the slopes and curves of my body so much. I have earrings — they’re shaped like hearts. Pens of every colour. Coconut oil for my hair. Lately I think more about painting my nails than I do about dead poets.

I cook pasta in the quiet of my kitchen; its white cupboards, its fogging windows. My boyfriend wraps his arms around me while I wash the dishes and I barely think about my stomach. I recognize the appreciation in his eyes, the love — I feel no need to challenge it — let him hold me, let him kiss me, let him tell me.

I have small and I have beautiful. There is no bleeding here. No bruise or hurt. No anger. No regret. There is thankful. There is easy. Sometimes, when the moment is just right, I can even admit there is lucky — there is fate.

Please, don’t worry about me: I am being very, very good to myself; very, very gentle; very, very soft.


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