regular

The way it is.

I always want hot and sour soup. I have dreams about the stuff. A couple weeks ago, it was broccoli. Now I can’t look at the little green trees the same. The soup will die out, too, I fear. 

I can see swelling in my lower abdomen, in the convex shape of a decorative bowl. Almost eight weeks along. My pants still fit me just fine, but I feel puffy and exhausted. 

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