Chapter 1 - Sonnets I - V

I. "The fine line between caretaking and malicious manipulation"

Though I be large, and she light by compare,
My love for her, it blooms like summer's rose,
With every moment, every tender care,
My palm in hers, I feel my heart expose.
Yet still, I am pulled into her soft snare,
To feed upon the cream she doth bestow.
Her gentle whispers, filled with sweet despair,
Inspire me now to let my hunger grow.
Though I am caught, I cannot break away,
Her eyes, her touch, her voice so warm and low,
In each new morsel, more I choose to stay,
My yearning doth eclipse the deepest woe.
If love be hunger, let me starve no more,
For by her side I feast, and still implore.


II. “F*ckpig”

But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
Tis’ the east, and lo, my feeder, the sun!
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious snakes
That dare to cast their shadows on our fun.
Awake! Awake, my love, to see thee fed,
By her design, he fattens to behold,
Where once a waist was thin, now swells a bed,
Where love hath laid its weight in fold on fold.
My body, once a canvas lean and bare,
Now holds the brushstrokes of her shaping reign,
A landscape rich with plush, succulent care,
Where passion's harvest ripens, lush and plain.
In glutted need, our bodies intertwine,
Her pleasure stirs this pliant flesh of mine.


III. "Simping for her"

Her gaze, like misty pools of silver, gleam
And in their depths, a world of lust I find;
Her lips, as petals kissed by morning’s beam,
Doth whisper secrets to mine eager mind.
Yet am I still blinded by this pale dream?
For who am I to judge with sight so biased?
My heart, ensnared by love's seductive scheme,
Her flaws, though plain, by ardor are disguised.
As Narcissus sunk to his wat'ry bride,
So am I to her, who feeds with gentle hand.
Yet, mirrored glass deceives with truth belied
Than what my love-lit eyes may understand.
If beauty fades when seen through honest eyes,
Still let me dwell within her veiled disguise.


IV. "150"

Her cheeks once bone, now plump as autumn fruit,
Her waistline ripe, her limbs a tender grace,
In mirrored bond, she thrives in blest repute,
Where once was firm, now yields a softer space.
Yet still, she is the fairest of them all,
Her radiance glows, though altered by our play;
A goddess grown. Her charms hold hearts in thrall,
Each pound a token of her love's fond sway.
I jest, my dear, for thou art ever fair,
No weight can mar the light that shines within;
Thy visage, like the crimson peony, rare,
Whether thou art slim or with double chin.
Though time may shift her form by slow degree,
Her beauty lives eternal unto me.


V. "Better left in the fantasy realm"

Yet I am he, the feedee forlorn,
Whose heart with longing for her touch doth swell;
Yet I arrive when she her love hath torn
From him who once in her embrace did dwell.
O! bitter turn, to show me such scorn,
To grant my wish, but not my love's release.
For she, the one who fills him plump and worn,
Doth now belong to time, to age's crease.
With heavy sighs, desire burns like fire,
I gaze upon the one I cannot share,
In others’ bulk, I see her love entire,
Which I shall never feel, nor ever dare.
No feast is mine, though hunger is my fate,
By cruel design, I know my love too late.