They called him "bubbles" when he grew up,
Rolls of fat around his waist.
No one would know from his cancer-ridden body at fifty.
He told me "You'll be that thin in two months"
But I was "porky pig" to him
With added jelly rolls
Though we really did try.
No matter how many awards,
his esophagus was still torn,
Keeping a deep secret.
One day, I saw him go to his house
And two weeks later he was dead.
I'm going to make you a good athelete
If it's the last thing I do.
And it was... sort of.
Only tall, thin girls could compete,
the next lady said,
glaring at me disapprovingly,
but no one knew I was dying.
Not even me.
I was still. too. fat.
It was a chilly day
When I threw the long black dress on
And nearly puked at the reflection looking back at me.
By two days after Christmas,
The anniversary of his death,
I could be thin just as he wanted
And fulfill his final wish.
Nothing is ever good enough.
Another year passed,
Filled with everything but carbs,
Proved to be an extraneous variable.
They thought they were helping.
Thought.
I thought about it for awhile
On my extremely long run
Fueled by 800 calories.
I thought about it.
As I stared at the half-digested food
and prepared for the next heave.
Maybe someday I'll think about it
In a skinnier body.
Maybe someday I'll be like him.
Thin.
Dead.