Medusa and her lesser compadre.

I usually write about her. Well, I write about what she gave me. The fluttering glim of feeling that welled in my stomach from the site where she first touched, and so on and so on, a loose loop of idiom and metaphor, god knows what else thrown in.

Or I write about calories.

It appears that I crave the impossible, or what I cannot have, but surely this is a normative human state; our reason for being is to accumulate. Not necessarily material goods, but love, or respect, or whatever we crave. A good figure, and her, in my case. Intelligence wouldn't be too bad either.

I am so much more than this, and I wish I could show myself as I truly am. Usually, I am happy, or doing something, never discussing my weight; it is a scheherezade, a dance of the seven veils, always haunting me night after night. When I awake, a cursory glance suggests I'm not so bad, but at night I have swollen, become a flaccid mess. Removal of my maquillage doesn't aid this. By night, I am a gorgon. Daily? I cover, I veil, albeit thinly.