I love myself when I first wake up. I love the way my body feels against the pillows, when my mind is still shifting out of the lucid dreams, when my skin feels soft and warm against the worn polyester of my blanket. I love the way my body is, skin taut and refreshed, legs curled in close to my chest, the cotton of my sweatshirt loosely brushing my stomach. I love the indentation I make between the pillows, my little nest of hair and fuzzy socks, the sheets wrapped around my legs, the corner of the pillow pressed against my lips. I love my sudden cluelessness in waking, opening eyes to darkness and almost reminding myself, for a moment, to breathe. I love the purity of my mind, recognizing suddenly the desk chair, the blanket with the duck pattern, and the lamp to the left of the bed all before any real thoughts creep in. I love my hair in my face, my closed mouth, my hands tucked between my chest and pillow. I love how serene I must look, how peaceful, how happy as I fade from dreams. I love imagining myself in that moment: a little body in a little bed, in a little room, in a little house. I feel small, a speck in the scheme of it all, but I feel beautiful in that moment. And I hold onto that for as long as can before pulling myself from the covers and into a pencil skirt and tights–the outside world’s definition of what I look like, who I should be.