You said I have soft skin, running your fingers down my abdomen. 

Pressing palms into curves, you purred into my ear, 

‘you’re so soft my dear’  

 

I said, no, look how rough my hands are. Feel the callouses, see the tears in my skin.

You ran your hands down my chest and said ‘but see how easily my fingers go through your skin? look how quickly you soak up my words. You are soft.’

 

I never said I was soft. You said so and so I was.

You traced my lips with your fingers and said ‘look how soft your mouth is. See how malleable your words are. How I can indent them with one finger.’

 

I never agreed, I never argued. 

I thought you wanted soft, so I became soft for you. 

But what does texture have to do with time? 

 

You sedated me with kindness, so that the more you stroked my skin the softer I became and I could no longer stand up to your gentle words. 

 

I wanted to stand and say ‘look how rough I am! I am buoyant, I am solid, I am elastic! I am anything but pliable! 

It’s not up to you to decide my textures. 

I am not soft. 

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