Aww did you burst another button? Don't worry about that, I already bought you some new jeans. A few sizes bigger this time so you have room to grow. You're getting too big?

I know you said 400 was your limit but you said that at 300 and 250 too remember? We both know you're not going to lose any of the weight. You're too weak willed, too addicted aren't you?

Why even fight it? The last time you tried a diet you lost what, 5 pounds? 10? You were miserable the whole time. I can see you eyeing the fridge porky. Just give in already, you'll feel better after some heavy cream, you always do.

You don't want to use the funnel today? But you know how much it makes me happy. That's my girl. Just sit back while I pour thousands of calories down your throat. It's normal, healthy even. I know you've been struggling with the stairs recently but it's cute watching you get out of breath. I like when you're too tired to do anything. You're meant for this. All that working and thinking from a few years ago. Someone like you doesn't need to worry about all that.

Unbuttoning your pants after a long office lunch

Realising you’re overflowing your waistband or belt as you snack on treats at your desk

Breaking your gas lift chair as your ass starts creeping over the sides

Permanent work from home, taking breaks in your enormous food-stained sweats to gorge on delicious food

Unbuttoning your pants after a long office lunch

Realising you’re overflowing your waistband or belt as you snack on treats at your desk

Breaking your gas lift chair as your ass starts creeping over the sides

Permanent work from home, taking breaks in your enormous food-stained sweats to gorge on delicious food

In our society, to normal, functioning members of it, a Valentine is a symbol of devotion; to give your heart to someone is merely a sugarcoated metaphor for the fine, intricate human feeling of love, of sweet loyalty and adoring commitment.

My problem lies within its ambiguity, how underwhelmingly figurative and cliché the idea of it is.

How about my version instead, pig?

The room is suffocating, the drowsy saccharine air melting into the gnawing unease in the heavy atmosphere. The dimmed industrial lights flicker, drowning out your abrupt snorts and sobs in a dull, mechanical hum.

I slowly trace down the side of your swollen arm, placing a cold hand on your clammy forehead as you shudder in discomfort. Your gullet is repulsively smeared in drool and lingering traces of chocolate, your grease stained bariatric bed adorned with sanguine, tacky heart shaped boxes.

My dying, sweet Valentine.

I plug your warm mouth with another nauseating piece of chocolate, wiping the ripening tears in your darkened eyes. You submit to the sugar. You submit to me.

“I gave you my heart” I whisper teasingly, laughing and waving another dreaded box in front of your grotesque cheeks, shining you a perverse smile I can’t conceal.

“Now, I want yours.”

Fear condenses on your lips. They’re met with an insistent handful of the same chocolates, forcefully pushed in.

I’ve always wanted the physicality of it. To feel the sludge filled, syrupy piece of worn out meat I’ve soaked in years of abuse and butter. And I’ll have it.

“I want your heart, pig.” I breathe into your ear as my hand trails down to your revolting, lard filled chest. You squirm.

It’s fascinating how your body has to slick its most vital organ in delicious, visceral adipose to accommodate my freakish, growing piggy. Adorable how your turgid heart is bursting with the love, the sugar, I pump your veins and arteries full of.

The fragmented cry of it escapes the layers of grease, palpitating frantically. The satisfying sound of its failure sears through your pinkish, bruised up skin. I know you feel that familiar ache. You know it too well. This time, I need to have it, my Valentine.

The crippling pressure of my love chokes you, the pulsing reality of it all tears into you. You quiver and gasp for help, with that begging, horrified look in your eyes that I love so, so much.

“You’re finally mine” I coo in pleasure, pressing into the velvety, precious lard I’ve slowly killed you with.

Your vision fades into nothing, that sugary pig heart bursting, crushed.

I never wanted the metaphor of a heart. I want your heart, the real, sickening trophy of my love, my loyalty, my commitment. To slaughtering you like a real pig.

Trans women on bbw blogs, trans men on bhm blogs, and nb gainers not being misgendered

i was trying on a bathing suit bottom with these cute strings to tie on the side, and i just. couldn’t for the life of me remember how to tie them? and it got me thinking—i haven’t worn shoes i had to tie in well over a year.

i could barely reach with both hands to make the knot—my tits were in the way, my belly filled the space i had to reach over… i got exhausted just trying to reach

i wear things that’re easy to get on and easy to get off. i can’t bend over too well because my belly is in the way. it’s starting to hang so, so low.. and i can’t even reach my feet anymore—if i tried to paint my nails it would be exhausting, i’d be out of breath in seconds

it makes me wonder what’s next. will i forget the little trick i use to get bras on? will i forget how to hoist myself up off the floor sometime in the next 100 pounds?

and then, when i finally get to those “too big to live alone without a caretaker” sizes, what will be next?

clumsy, fat fingers unable to button up shirts. the same overly softened hands struggling to hold a fork, eating without utensils is just so much easier.. can’t reach around my belly enough to button any pants, either, it’ll have been years (and hundreds of pounds of lard) since i could even see what i’m doing, anyways