They want me to be soft.
They want me to bend under the strength on their hands, under the pressure of my curated thoughts. I feel like I am dying under the weight of it all. Every day I wake up and wish I were dead, but then I accept that I am not and realize there is nothing else to do but go on and so I go on, shuffling my feet along the same roads of everyone before. Along the same roads they have paved for me, entrenched me in.
I want me to be soft, too, but it seems to come at a price. The others tell me that hard women get **** done. The others keep saying that I can be the same and more, that I carry the armpit of the women before me, that I can be just as strong as THEM.
I want to be soft and safe.
I have been so hard, so calcified for so long, that my knees are forever creaking and my wrists are always sore. I know that I am hard. I know the power it brings.
I want to be soft.
I want to feel the things I’ve been deprived of for so ******* long. These pretty blondes around me are so thin you’d think the wind would break them. I want to be like them. Happy? Soft? Cashmere. Let me experience the luxury of living in a padded world.