Fuck Sundays anyway

Because I’m a fat ass. Because I was already irritated. The way you were hanging on me. The work I need to do. The food in my stomach metabolizing straight to my thighs/hips/arms/face/calves/cheeks/ass/waist/chest. Who are you anyway? My guts were black like charcoal and twice as gritty. Fuck Sundays. Fuck Valentine’s. Fuck fancy dinners Fuck new clothes Fuck sleeping in Fuck food anyway. Fuck being nice. Fuck being sweet. Because you called me pretty And I can’t stand the lies that are so sticky sweet and make messes and gather all the dirt from the air and somehow it’s still sticky and now it’s black and you can’t scrub it off. Because you throw around things like “love” and “forever” and “beautiful” but they’re too heavy for me to catch and all they do is leave me with bruises. And bruises just remind me of fat. Because you still don’t know that I’m Stupid and fat and ugly and crazy. Because you make it hard for me to feel bad. Because you throw around things like “forever” and this is the only way I can catch it.

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