You fit in my cupped palms neatly, delicate and fragile. I was so terrified of hurting you then, and even more when I put you in my mouth, then sent you down my throat. Your confidence astounded me, sometimes. Most of the time, really. After all, you were the one so eager to crawl into my mouth, even when I insisted otherwise. You hadn't relented, but you never did. I'm not sure why I bothered protesting.
But you were resilient, in the way that you always are. I shouldn't have been surprised. And you settled into my stomach so nicely, filling me up in a way that I hadn't known was possible.
My fingers hover over my middle, hesitant. I reach out, then pull back. Reach, then back. Then, carefully, as delicate as you, I brush my index finger just beneath my ribs. The fabric of my shirt is smooth, something you'd like to lay on. But beneath it, beneath skin and bone and muscle, is you.
Nestled beneath my ribs, snug and safe. Closer to me than I'd ever thought possible before. There's so much trust in that, so much faith you put in me to take care of you. To listen to you, to be gentle with you. I'm not sure what to do with it. I'm not used to it, but you gave it to me like it was mine, well worn with patches I'd put on there, my scent baked into it.
I am too hesitant, too uncomfortable with what you have gifted me, to reach for you again, so I lay my hands lower, on top of winding intestines. But I can feel you, weighing inside me. Always there, always present. And that is enough for me.
