24 HOURS TO BINGE


I guess my stress
has the zest of Georgia sweet
peach cobbler.
pardon me for being
quite comfortable in baggy
boot-cut calorie jeans
with elastic seams
they just seem to calm my mid-day
thru midnight
manic depression.
double-agent low
confidence sufferer
under the clever guise
of hunger.
picture me at 3 a.m.
squeezed between
grilled cheese
imagery
and a ballpoint pen
cause these
plump pair
of thunder thighs
can’t lie
no matter how hard
these lips might try
to be the fly
thick slick sista
bordering on
big legs ass and hips
sista pissed I’m
tipping the scale of
“just right for my height”
try and make light
of this fatter matter
so I force smiles
despite the tempting trials
and taupe tile lining the
miles of mouthwatering
grocery aisles piled high
with high cholesterol
and all the exercise
I’ve ever endured was
a slight muscle flex
during price checks
toning abs while
clipping out ads
exchanging bar codes
for bar bells
crunches with
caramel and carvel
blood sweat and tears
for 10 items or less
cashiers
and now 4 years
and 4 full figured
dress sizes later
fitting rooms taunt me
plus sizes haunt me
and that coffee cake
looks more like a syringe
fridge light dim as I binge
teetering on the lighter end of heavy
it was a struggle
to bench press my stress
so I ate the weight
placed on my shoulders
older and no longer petite
can’t compete with complete
cookie cut-out beauties of the
weak for Belgian waffles
and bread baskets
this Mrs. Dash jogs slow
under high heat
indecisive lard lurks
in deep fried decisions
for dipping
and sometimes
thoughts of suicide
are served with
sweet & sour sauce
on the side
not to mention
tofu plates of promiscuous men
make obese vegetarians
no matter how fast the fast
how long it lasts
or how thin I’ve been
in the past
low self-esteem
be the meat of my mask
where fat grams ripple
guilt jiggles around
my middle
a little arrogance
on the griddle
dairy dents in hips
spread cottage cheese
thighs wide
bursting out of
pantsuit pressure
for perfection
slice me in precise sections
bet I’ll bleed a needy cuisine
strive to be pristine
but prefer the pie
in piety
and thought I often can’t stand
the sight of me
food fulfills pain
of all varieties
but what would you do?
expose the holes
in your porous poverty stricken pride
or swallow it…


© B. Sharise Moore