With swollen legs and burning heart and every cell athirst,
with flesh as tight as drumskin and a roughened tongue accursed
from all the salts and fats and sweets that nearly made me burst,
I pen this song of pig-and-bloat, with invocation first:

Stepsister to the seven, this enchantress spurs the binge.
She works her worst at midnight – she insinuates a twinge
of pleasure sought and comfort earned, and just when I should cringe,
is when I find me kitchen-bound, seduced and off the hinge.

Depict her how you fancy – born by night and dead at dawn,
when come the questions: What was that? and Why? and For how long?
She feeds on myths of freedom and she’s powered by defiance.
She couples with my boredom in recurring sick alliance.
Unloving friend, unwanted kid, I hate her just enough
to post this verse, and purge the curse, and give her back her stuff.