Eating Yourself to Death

Eating yourself to death. That’s what they say you’re doing.

Your family. Your friends. Your former coworkers at that fast food job you had for 2 seconds right out of high school before you found food, where you found food. And before he found you.

Eating yourself into a young man’s grave.

That’s what they say you’re doing. And they’re not wrong. Not that you know what they say, or could even bring yourself to care. The truth is, you don’t hear much these days.

How can you? Your ears are usually ringing, your head and heart pounding from the pressure in your stomach. From how much you’ve eaten in any given sitting.

You’ve never stopped to notice how it’s your head that seems ready to burst, and not your stomach, have you? It’s because you can’t even feel your stomach anymore. You don’t even know what full is. You just feel empty. Hollow. Constantly needing food, constantly needing him to feed you.

Feed you to death.

They’re right. It’s an addiction. A crippling one you have no chance of sobering up from. Not with him here.

Your feeder. You’re beautiful boyfriend. Boyfriend? You don’t know what he is to you. All you know is his interest seemed to peak after you packed on 35 pounds flipping burgers the summer after graduation. Flabby love handles began to spill over your shorts, and shirts stretched to accommodate your blossoming chest.

A childhood deprived of any indulgence left you an unwieldy and impulsive adult. Moving in with him after just 3 months of knowing each other. “He likes me despite the weight,” you thought. Too naive to realize he was intentionally making you bigger, rewarding you each and every time you ate more than the previous record.

Now here you are. Not even yet 23 years old and already stuck to the couch 23 hours a day. A stomach riddled with stretchmarks. Nipples the size of palms. An ass as wide as the loveseat. Spending your entire day stuffing yourself while you sit naked.

The last few years have left you barely mobile, your organs struggling to deal with the round the clock barrage of grease, fat, sugar, and salt. But you won’t stop. He won’t let you. And you don’t even want to you.

Because you’re eating yourself to death. It’s growing closer every day. That’s the way he wants it. And you can’t bring yourself to stop.

Good luck, fatty.