Questions to Future Me – by Glass Heart
What do you want, then?
At home, sitting on your throne.
And complaining so heartedly of your clicks and pains and aches to the bone.
The mal-fitting, ill-sitting skirt you used to own.
And looking down, as the rolls abound I ask: Why not take the first step?
“Because the magazines have told me I’m fat!” she shrieks, as clods of Flake drip down her cheeks.
“And it’s not my fault, it’s in my genes!” she wails, and wipes her eyes with doughnuts filled with fresh whipped cream, forward leaning on her face of layered crisps.
She moans: “It’s society, you know.”
Raising one hot-spicy bingo wing to scratch her weave, which wobbles like a blackcurrant jelly.
Click, scritch, sigh.
“You mean, you don’t find me beautiful?
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