Softening.

I am the softest I have ever been.

Once there was only hard angles, jagged edges. 
All claws and teeth, and spikes and bone. 
Gnashing away at the things I love,
Showing regard with clenches and tugs.
Yanking and ripping, and tearing and biting.

I am the softest I have ever been.

Once there was only peaks and spires,
Now hills and valleys, and coves and meadows. 
Floating on the waves of discomfort and bliss,
I lean into the dip of my hips, the sureness of my chins,
The roundness of my belly, and the thickness of my thighs.

I am the softest I have ever been.

Which doesn’t mean I never bite.
Which doesn’t mean I never scream.
Which doesn’t mean I cannot fight.
Which doesn’t mean I do not dream.

I am simply the softest I have ever been.