There was a time when these jeans slid on like a second skin, hugging in all the right places, fitting like they were made for me. But today? Today, they feel like a goddamn vice. Each step, each breath, a battle against denim that refuses to yield. Maybe it’s the stairs, maybe it’s the way I devoured last night’s indulgence with reckless abandon—but deep down, I know the truth. The weight pressing against the waistband isn’t the fabric’s fault.

They’ve shrunk in the wash? A comforting little lie. The truth is far heavier, sinking deep into my thighs, my hips, my belly that’s spilling just a little softer, a little rounder over the top. The seams stretch, the button strains, and there’s no denying it—I’ve gotten fat… again.

And god, isn’t that delicious? Feeling the tightness, the proof of indulgence, of excess, of every bite savored without a second thought. The way the denim bites into my skin, leaving little red marks like a whispered promise of just how much more of me there is now. A hand drifts down, grazing over the curve of my belly, pressing in just enough to feel the fullness, the weight of greed, of pleasure.

Maybe I should struggle a little longer, let the pressure tease me, remind me of what I’ve become. Or maybe… maybe I should just give in. Pop the button, let it all spill out, revel in the reality that there’s simply too much of me for these jeans anymore.

Waking up on the couch is always a little disorienting. Groggy, warm, limbs tangled in a lazy sprawl. I shift to stretch only to feel softness spilling over the edge, the cushions beneath me suspiciously lacking space.

I blink, smirking to myself. A three-seater, once more than enough, now feeling laughably small beneath me. The couch hasn’t changed. But I have. Thighs pressing tight, belly heavy in my lap, body taking up every inch it can claim.

I should take myself to bed, but the effort feels monumental. Too warm, too comfortable, too content. So I stay, sighing as I wiggle into place, the couch beneath me groaning in protest. It’ll just have to keep up.

I can’t move.

Every breath is shallow, my chest rising in weak, uneven pants as the sheer weight of my stomach presses me deeper into the mattress. It’s heavy—so unbearably heavy—pinning me down, keeping me in place, a prisoner to my own gluttony. My skin is stretched tight, feverish under my fingertips as my hands roam over the overfilled swell of my gut, feeling every inch of how far I’ve gone. It’s round, taut, bloated beyond reason, and it aches—God, it aches—but there’s something else beneath the discomfort. Something deeper, something darker, something that has me shivering despite the heat rolling off my skin.

I’m wrecked. Ruined. A helpless, greedy piglet who couldn’t stop, who didn’t want to stop, who gave in and kept going until there was nothing left but this—this trembling, swollen mess of a body, stuffed past the point of reason, past the point of restraint. My limbs feel useless, too weighted to lift, my belly distended and unforgiving, pressing down, pressing out, a testament to my own indulgence. I should feel shame. Maybe I do. But mostly, I just feel… desperate.

I need hands on me. I need them to press down, to feel the tightness, the fullness, to take in every rounded inch and make me suffer for it. I need to be teased, reminded that I did this to myself, that I let my hunger take over, that I couldn’t help but gorge and gorge until I was too heavy, too stuffed, too wrecked to move.

I need to be worshiped. Touched. Owned. Because this—this unbearable fullness, this helpless indulgence, this throbbing, aching, insatiable need—is exactly what I wanted.

Ode to a Broken Desk Chair – Gone, but Will Not Be Missed

You never stood a chance.

Flimsy screws, cheap plastic, a cushion worn thin from use—collapsing beneath me was always your fate, wasn’t it? You held on, creaking, groaning, shuddering with every shift, every indulgence, every teasing press of my weight. You knew what was coming long before I did.

The armrests dug in first, biting into soft flesh, struggling to hold me. They tried to keep me contained, tried to remind me of where I started—smaller, lighter, easier to manage. But I’ve outgrown you. And you felt it, didn’t you? The slow, inevitable expansion. The extra inches, the extra weight, pressing, straining, making you groan in protest.

And yet, you still tried. Your wheels, once built for effortless movement, locked up beneath me, trembling under the pressure, resisting like they knew I wasn’t done getting heavier. Every day, you fought a losing battle, the strain building with each meal, each bite, each indulgence. You held me, barely, like a lover on the edge of exhaustion, knowing you couldn't keep up but too stubborn to give in.

But today, you finally broke.

Maybe it was the extra pastries at breakfast, or maybe—just maybe—you just couldn’t handle me anymore. A quiet snap, a sudden give—then collapse. Legs splaying wide, frame cracking under pressure, giving out completely beneath me. Wrecked. Ruined. Reduced to nothing but scraps on the floor.

You tried. You failed.

And now you’re done, tossed aside like every other thing that couldn’t handle me.

Melancholic Monday—
seeps in, thick and sluggish, curling around me like a weight I can’t shake.
The weekend lingers—golden, lawless, obscene—clinging to my skin in the scent of sugar
and something deep-fried, in the ache of overuse, in the lazy satisfaction of too much.
My body still hums with it, the excess, the abandon, the freedom. No counting, no questioning, just taking, tasting, having.

I close my eyes, and it's still there—the sticky-sweet drip of melted ice cream down my wrist, the syrup-heavy drinks that fizzed on my tongue, the warm, doughy weight of food settling low and decadent in my stomach.
Hands grasping, lips parting, indulgence with no shame.
It was a weekend of more—more flavor, more pleasure, more body, stretching, filling, spilling into every empty space.

But Monday is a thief. It creeps in and strips the excess away, dulls the richness, replaces it with rigidity, expectation, control.
The world demands order, posture, purpose—tight waistbands and tighter restraint.
Sit up straight, hold it in, smooth it down, shrink yourself into something palatable, something presentable, something less.

So I obey. I trade want for need, hunger for duty, pleasure for discipline.
I pull on stiff clothes that pinch at the waist, press my thighs together in a chair too small, sip my bitter morning coffee as if it could wash away the memory of sweetness.

Stomach empty, mouth quiet, longing for the taste of yesterday.

An Expression of Morbid Obesity; In the Form of an Aussie Summer.

Bare feet on hot concrete,
the scent of sunscreen and melted ice cream in the air.
Sun-drunk and lazy, sticky thighs on plastic chairs,
a bead of sweat slipping slow down my neck.

Denim cut-offs bite into soft flesh,
last summer’s fit now a little too tight—
seams straining, fabric digging,
the price of indulgence well paid.

The air is thick, syrupy,
heat clings like honey to bare skin,
glistening beneath the sun’s greedy gaze.

And then—relief.

Ice-cold strawberry milkshake, thick and shamelessly sweet,
rolling over my tongue, filling me up,
settling low and heavy.
Simple, messy, indulgent…
exactly how an Aussie summer should be.

Plastic chairs groan beneath me,
hot and slick where skin meets seat,
a slow, sticky peel with every shift,
every breath drawn heavy and deep.

The all-too-familiar smell—sunscreen lingers in the air,
thick, artificial, nostalgic,
clinging to sweat-damp skin,
mixing with the heat, the stillness, the weight of the afternoon.

The heat hums in my skin, in my breath, in my bones,
the weight of summer pressing down,
saturating every inch of me in its golden, gluttonous haze.

Let the world sweat and ache around me—
I am here, and I am full.

"The Pants Dilemma"

Past me was bold, so full of cheer,

Said, "Let’s make plans! Let’s go out, my dear!"

Present me sighs, with a groan and a pout.

“Wait… I have to wear pants to go out?”

Future me sits, stiff and confined,

Regretting the waistband that’s far too tight.

Counting the minutes ‘til I’m finally free,

Back in the nudee, where I’m meant to be.

So the cycle repeats, time and again,

A lesson unlearned, a battle within.

Plans sound fun—until reality lands,

Because nothing good ever started with pants.