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.