I should not
have to thank him for loving me
despite my form.
He is not a martyr
for caressing the stretched thin
skin around my waist;
for kissing my excess;
for needing me.

I love him
through his one beer a night
and extra slice of pizza,
my love grows exponentially
to the amount he commands the room.
Why should I
be expected
to sing his praises?
To thank my stars
that he has not repelled
from such an ambiguous frame?

I will not be had.

Michelle K., The Fantastic Taste of a Double Standard. (via michellekpoems)