The rolls on my stomach jiggle whenever I move, people snickering and laughing at me when I walk by. My feet are bricks, my thighs are sandpaper. My gigantic feet smash upon the ground, leaving pot holes in their place. Mustard yellow clumps of lard sizzle underneath my skin, making it bubble and itch. I scratch at the blisters that form, tearing the blubber out from inside of me. It spills out of my ears, drips out of my eyes and onto my cheeks, pours out of my aching mouth into white porcelain bowls with a splash. The nasty songs in my head are on repeat, remind me that I'm fatworthlessstupidugly. I wish I were dead. I want to pick up the shiny steel knife that sits untouched beside my untouched plate that holds my untouched food, and slice out the fat. It would slip out of me and drizzle onto the carpet, soaking into the white fuzz, sliding across the floor and on to the kitchen tiles where it would sit there and tsk at the food in the fridge, the groceries on the counter. I want to pick myself apart one rib at a time and peak at what's inside.