allfattenedup

Soft hang slipping low

Added 2022-04-18 21:40:59 +0000 UTC

There’s a version of me who lives in the back of my mind.

He's the one doing this to me. He watches me doing my best to get myself under control. He sits back as I try to forget the bone-deep thrill, the terrifying, humiliating rush that I got when I first made myself fat. He let me believe it was in the past, watched me as I lost the weight I gained, as I started to look like myself again. Started to feel normal again. I remembered what life was like before this surreal fever dream of heavy fat and hot shame. I thought I was out. And just as soon as I did…

He whispers.

It doesn’t sound like anything other than my own fleeting thoughts, at first, so I try to ignore them. They come from nowhere, seemingly, so they should just go away again if I keep being good. Keep being active, eating well, paying attention to my appearance the way I always used to. But he’s persistent. Thoughts of hanging bellies, swelling cheeks, wobbling arms intrude into my nice, normal life again. I ignore them, so he whispers louder. Forcing me to listen. No more whispering. Now, he's shouting. Soon I’m overcome by thoughts of stomachs falling over waistbands, soft globes of wobbly bottoms knocking against each other, double chins dropping below faces. Hands grabbing new rolls, horror and ecstasy. Buttons, popping. Zips, breaking. Me, gasping.

I don’t want it, I tell him. Please, I don't want it.

But I can't lie to him. He's me. He knows the truth.

I want it.