I want you to be obsessed.
True, I try to be patient. I tell you that we can take it slow, that it's fine that you're easing into things. And I do mean it. Sometimes. For now.
But I am waiting for you to lose your sense of moderation. I am biding my time, maybe. Suggesting a little more here and there. Letting you dip your toes into darker fantasies. Watching you start to pay more attention to the extremes. Not mentioning the way you've slowly graduated from, "maybe a few extra pounds," to, "450 doesn't sound so big," to, "walking should be a spectator sport." You're still exploring the idea, and I won't push you.
I won't push you, but I won't stop you from going a little further, a little too far. Heavy cream will become gainer shakes. A little weed to help you keep eating here and there will expand into days of weed and evenings of pub crawls and appetite stimulants until the overlap between your drunken stumble and your overburdened waddle leaves you leaning on me. Until you're groaning in my passenger seat, rubbing your impossibly large gut and still whining at every fast food sign we pass until I finally - finally - agree to buy you one more evening snack.
I'll pretend not to notice when I come home to you beached in the same place I left you in the morning - you're allowed lazy days, after all. I'll make you dinner even while I listen to your shallow breathing and stifled belches because you're still trying to give me the impression that you have this under control. I'll clean up the wrappers, bags, cans and cups scattered around you. I won't remind you that I get a notification every time you order delivery through my app.
And you'll pretend that you can think about anything other than growing for me. You'll get up and go to work as though everything is normal. You'll blush each time you admit that you need new clothes, you'll hide the evidence of drive-thru trips on your way home, you'll make excuses for the thirty extra minutes you spent in a parking lot shoveling down dinner for three, swallowing a milkshake almost without pausing for breath. You'll tug at the hem of your shirt while I tell you how hungry you must be after a whole day without me. You'll eat another meal rather than admit to what you've done. Seconds, because you always agree to them now, and I'll be suspicious if you decline. You'll wonder how you're going to heave yourself up from the table, be relieved when I absentmindedly help you to the couch. You'll barely be settled before you start wondering about dessert. Not because you're hungry - you can't possibly be hungry at this point, you can't remember the last time your stomach rumbled with anything other than complaints about overwork. You'll ask for it because you need more. Always more. More food, more calories, more fat, more touch.
I want you to be insatiable, but more, I want you to need to eat for me. To grow for me. I don't want the thought of slowing to enter your head. I want you to make me a little nervous about how huge you're making yourself, letting me make you.
