You sit across the way and stare at me
as I fight my temptation to give in.
Fulfilling my yearns and granting each plea,
you make me feel so great, it must be sin.
You give the contents to fill what I lack,
and patiently sit till I need my fix.
You hand me ice cream when the world attacks.
You are the safe place, to which I affix.
I stare at my stomach, bloated and round.
You left this mark, this scar to make me yours.
While gaining your ownership with each pound,
you packed me with the plump that I deplore.
I called you lust. The world said Frigidaire.
My body: a product of this affair.