I used to want to be empty, a space for someone else to put their idea of me.
And hard, like bony shoulders and hip bones.
Or opinions, held tight. Both felt safe.
Like loving someone who was always just a little removed,
who made loving me seem hard, too.
Life feels soft now.
Like my belly, perfect pillow for my babies, no longer striving to be hollow.
It’s vanilla soft serve with rainbow sprinkles, dripping down my sticky hands.
And smelling my daughter’s fuzzy head, after her daddy gives her a bath.
I hope every year I grow softer, my tender heart swelling,
so at the end I can look back and remember
how delicious it all was.