Baker’s Hands
I don't want to be alone in the crushing night, mocked by my pillow and the ache in my heart. Why is there no deep heat rub to make the pain go away, or a foam roller just for the little nooks and crannies that have turned to steel since you left? When I was fresh and supple, full of hope, my heart moulded itself in your baker's hands like a ball of cookie dough. Now it could be chipped away by a chisel, chunks of me falling away. You wouldn't be able to change my core anymore, not without splitting me in half and gluing me back into a shadow of my former self.
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