feed me starving by Caleb Luna
“i used to be
245” he tells me
like my middle
school husky pants is i
guess a lot to
weigh and lifts his
shirt, puts my
hand on his
soft flat stomach,
says “i want it
a little harder,” asks
me what size
shirt i wear and how
much i weigh
i only know
the answer to
one of these questions,
tells me “i’m
gonna make you bigger,”
gets on top and puts his
dainty Danish, tiny tart in my
mouth, just before his tongue,
a garnish of delight and approval i could
feast on forever, no
calories and
later (when i’ve
left and this is
no longer hot) i wonder
why he wants
to make me fatter
and shrink himself, what
am i ingesting that
is just his digestion,
baby bird of
desperation and no self-love
so i can
be his hard
-on in the sheets and harassed in the
streets, effigy of disgust and
confusion, so he can
be lean and
hot, “verse, but I
only top chubs”
thinness and penetration don’t have to
be about power but why does this make
me feel so dis(sed)empowered and
who is fucking him when
he’s not fuckin me and what’s
their shirt size, how thin do you have to be
to be loved and when
will he text
me back i’m
hungry