Read, reblog, and resonate!
Don’t Blame Me:
Since we met you’ve gained weight. You were a small, petite little thing with a tiny waste, visible hip bones, and perky little breasts. Your clavicle had always been defined, and society called you “pretty”. You were the standard. You fit in. Your size was available in every store, and everything you wore fit like it was made for you. But not anymore.
Since we met, you’ve gained a considerable amount of weight. None of your old clothes fit, your once prominent hip bones have all but disappeared, and that oh so defined clavicle has been swallowed up by your fleshy mounds of breast tissue and fat. Your arms are big and soft, and your thighs rub and have cellulite. Your belly hangs over your waistband and sits high and full between your ever growing breasts. You no longer fit the mold of Society’s standard. You have to custom order clothes, bras never fit, and you continue to spill out of everything you wear. You did this.
“You made me fat." you say. But no, I only told you it was okay to eat what you wanted, and said it was fine to have seconds, thirds, maybe more. I told you I thought you were pretty. As you grew, I played with your soft tummy and poked fun as you wondered where it came from. You enjoyed it when I squeezed your rolls and slid my fingers between your folds. You loved the attention. The stares you got from people outside as your shirts rode up made you smirk. The way your soft parts bounced and wobbled made you blush... It turned you on when you were so full that your newfound belly was taught with food. You did this.
I only encouraged you. I touched your body, I made you feel good. I called you my “Pretty Princess” and pet names that made you feel loved. I bought you clothes when yours no longer fit. I cooked more food when you ran out. I found new recipes for you to enjoy. I bought your favorite snacks in bulk. You want it? I’ll get it for you. You’re hungry? Here’s my ice cream. Let me get you a spoon. Oh, you want to try that? I’ll have it delivered! “I love you” I said. “You’re soft.” And “You give the best hugs.” Every night, you would fall asleep with me holding your full belly. Every time you got a bellyache, I was there to rub and massage you. I didn’t make you fat. You did.
I sat and watched as you ate. I watched you get soft and round. I adored the way your hips got wide, your bosom grew, and your belly swelled. I thought it was cute, the way you seemed to nestle into your body as it enveloped you. You looked happy. Content. I wanted to support you. But *I* didn’t make you fat. *I* didn’t force you to eat. I merely handed you the fork.
Don’t blame me.
-bigwhiteguy