I am glue.

I am glue. My pale viscosity fills any container, like a liquid. And yet, when exposed to fresh air, I turn into a dense solid. Neither suits me entirely, but indecision fits me like a glove. Why can I, glue, not be both? Who should make me decide? You, a stone, or you, a water? Both have figured themselves, and each other, out completley. Leave it to a stone to tell glue what to do.

Like a sticky serpent, I latch onto any object I come across. I stick to everything, and attach things to each other. The only object immune to the powerful adhesive is my own bottle, which I splash around inside of like water inside a turtle shell. There is no room for any oher object in my bottle. Any particle that manages to squeeze in is instantly absorbed. I smother it with my soupy dough, but all I wanted was some company.

With my cover left undone, I form a solid seal around the edges, preventing myself from spilling out and infecting my surroundings. I am contagious, like glitter, contaminating anything that so much as thinks about touching me. I consume, I deter, I seal myself in. I am glue.
I am glue.