I cross my legs and pinch them every time It comes to mind. Were you aware when you made me that It does not always produce pronounced breasts? Even now, when I think of the thunder of hormones that sloshed my scalp and nervous system, I get depressed. Fistfuls of wooded flowers, swishing forearms, and a nasal voice match the sway of lanky hips undulating my fleshy drop of density in the middle. If you’d said that growth would be mine, would I have taken it? Sure, I loved you. I loved everything about the entire inside of you, what I knew of it, however it was as it was. I still do. Like a Rube Goldberg machine, I liked to kick softly the grey crepuscular pink to the right and hear you gurgle under the pressure. Steps passed as we floated together for you to squat, and the soft pinkness where I'd knocked lessened with a gush emptying beneath us. To the left and top, a punt yielded a flabbered' gasp, and your hand resting atop our tundra. I loved when you held me in my encasement. Another kick to the other ceiling’s side, and a quickening of clunks. You’d fold in sitting, and I’d sit with you, my chunky butt whirling about to the settling bounce of your legs.
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