Wednesday, August 14, 2013


I'm not fat. I live extensively in the space I occupy. Every bite of Thanksgiving turkey exists tangibly inside my skin. You call it fat. I say it's space well used. You judge my food. Tell me it's full of preservatives. I'm a preservative. I embalm every christmas dinner in the cavity of my body. You tell me I should slim down, look sexier. Where do you store your sexy? In the cradle of your hipbones? I store mine in every dip and valley of my skin. Are you running out of body? Send it my way; I have room for your sexy too.