his stomach extends like a churning balloon, swishing within his insides like sperm inside of a womb he wish he never had, wiping his running nose with the back of his hand like a child inside of a child, eating so much until he’s become sick because he’d done the same as he’d starved—he can’t bear the thought of death but wishes for it once he can’t see a better fate that rests inside the future other than being a being with extra weight, the number on the scale being higher than he’d started with. So afraid he’d die from rising insulin that he cried for his mothers arms, cradling into her stomach that was once just as bloated with him as he stuffs himself to be when he forgets he was ever inside her, a bully in his mind, an enemy to his mother’s love. He hates the way he is, yet relies in the very thing that causes him to be so. An idiot. An idiot. An idiot. An idiot. An idiot. An idiot. A baffling fool that can’t help himself to say no. What once was flat is now plump. An idiot.