she's fat, but she wants me

feedback: untitled and mom

---

how many more

overweight, dough-faced,

unhealthy, too-far-past-30,

boring ladies

are going to flirt with me?

sidle up and slip a hand in my pocket,

overbite a lip and finger a locket?

 

i pine over stallions with curves,

leggy devils with evil eyes,

foxes whose baritone purrs

and sudden squealing cries

prove for a moment i'm not cursed,

the dysmorphia's a bug inside.

 

i've let out low moans and whimpers

when i've seen sisters of god

make models seem simple.

i've received a few simpers,

melted like july ice cream,

when a smile cracked two dimples

and breathed life into something

i'd only seen as a dream within a dream.

 

18-year-old nymphos tonguing dildos

shimmying out of cheap rippable clothes,

women my age with arms inked with rose,

unicorns sporting hair the color of crows.

 

too hard to think,

and the only ones who stick around

at the bar once last call hurries

the stragglers forward for a final drink

are the ones who'll fill me with regrets,

the ones i won't want to bend over the sink

and force to look in the mirror

at the rawness of us two hungry beasts.

 

one flashes some thigh,

leans in and asks if it's true what she's heard -

that i can write any woman into a dove,

give flight to wingless birds,

fuck like someone possessed?

 

she's fat, but she wants me.

is that enough to quell the lonely?

for flesh to no longer taunt me?

 

perhaps the lies in moments of need

are sufficient to tide me over,

to quell the lust and greed,

to kill the Y desire

to spread far and wide the seed.

---

perspective: seeing way, way too many women on GW and dating apps.

you're welcome to shoot me a follow on instagram @LinesofStone. i'm generally available for chats and writing help. if you want to snag a copy of my book I Held You Four Days, do so.