Diet
Some people have told me
that you’re making us all fat
(I’ll pardon the love affair) and
I’ll be honest, I don’t think I’m
a fat guy, but it’s true that I
feel fat on the inside—
too stagnant or timid to put up a fight—
and I know who you are,
but because of that (or in spite of it) I’m afraid of
losing you. You’re like a thorny rose—
hard to let go—
and people say you are what you eat,
but I don’t want to be some sickly sweet guy
with a sinister side, but I can’t let go;
you’re like an abusive lover, and every time
I go to leave I find
myself run, run, running right back to you—
a gingerbread man who can’t make up his mind—
because you pit myself against
myself; split me down the middle; I can’t
remove you— like a tumor you’re in my
blood; my memories—
and I hate to say that I love you so hard you
make my mouth water; love you like mini marshmallows
in my hot chocolate while sitting in front
of a fireplace on a winter day, and I’m fucking whipped for you
like the cream on my mother’s pumpkin pie
(you couldn’t even leave my family
out of this)
and I’ll be honest, you had a
damn good run, and
I’ll miss you (sort of) but sugar,
I’m done.