I am 4’9, 323 pounds. I cannot leave my house. I cannot lift myself from the couch. I cannot find the remote control. I cannot rub my feet. My butler robot can only make so many fried egg sandwiches. My maids have been instructed to black out all mirrors. I cannot remember what my face looks like. The sheet I wear is beige. How will I clean myself without you?
If you went to KFC and bought a bucket of chicken and drove to my house, when you used the intercom at the main gate and I heard your voice calling me Pretty Girl I would probably start to cry.
If you parked your car in the north garage, and came in through the staff’s quarters and surprised me by sneaking up behind the shark tank, with the bucket of KFC, I would probably scream and then start to cry.
If you walked in through the front doors, through the marble entryway, down the hall up the stairs, down the hall, past the library and game room and came into my sun lounge and surprised me with your bucket of KFC, I would probably cry.
I would cry because I am lonely and you brought me KFC.
You will feed me and we will eat
and then, when I have licked all of our fingers,
you will clean me.
You will not makes faces or squinch your nose; you will bathe me like you love me.
Even when you find things in my folds.
You will dry me with 27 freshly laundered towels.
I will dare to think ‘this is love’
but I know
you just want all my shit when I die.
Which
if you keep
bringing me buckets of chicken,
might be
very soon.
But in the meantime
I make you fuck me
because everything
has a price
and $10.99
for a bucket of chicken
($12.99 with sides)
is just too huge of a bargain.