Downhill. Your husband cheated on you and you divorced him and remarried immediately and now you’re unhappy and you’re eating chips and you’re sucking leftover ice cream up like there’s rationing and you’re faking sickness to stay in bed, avoiding sex, having lunch with friends even though clothes stopped fitting months ago.
I know it’s a lie. You didn’t put weight on. You never put on much. And the fat suit’s smooth, fleshy, the joins masked by slopped on foundation which stops us finding your skin hue, halts us knowing you completely. I’d like to enter the lie, lick the edges of it, understand the overlaps, extras. Enjoy the additions, like 50% free washing powder or Wispa Duos. Like anything there’s two of. Every opportunity to do something twice. (I’d __ you twice).