blinded by a dripping forehead
she ignores her ballooning knees
her thighs are glued to the floor
like her eyes trapped by the screen
she adores the paraded models
although they can barely walk
wheelchairs ferrying piles of fat
skeletons compressed by bulk
her hands are shaking as she digs
in the dishes heaped by her side
convinced she’s sat on chocolate
but a wrapper is all she finds
lumps of potato swimming
sprinkled with salt from her cheeks
bodily fluids coating the carpet
build-up amassing to weeks
who can blame her if the TV says
curves make the boys go wild
better off dead than thin and alone
she shovels chews swallows her bile
