I am sick of my stretching

parachute stomach.

Resentful of this daily process

of tucking

my not so secret

apron belly


into my genes.

I call the plastic surgeon

who says my insurance will cover

the removal of my kangaroo pouch.

Did you have bariatric surgery?


Call us back when you’re down

20 more pounds.

Insurance won’t fund

this procedure

until your body mass index

is lower.

By that time

my fucking pannus

will be shifted

into the tops of my socks.

My roll

will have slipped

under a rolling pin

of self loathing

and spread like dough

to my knees.

My belly button

will look like a goddamn

bell shaped curve

with my mental health

at such a low

we’ll throw that outlier

right out.

I call the dietitian next.

I add apples and kale

to my click list order.

I drink some

bullshit green tea.

Is there room

for radical acceptance?

In this flesh prison?

In these clinging pants?