I have reasons. And reasons mean reality; mean rationality. Reasons mean no. No to lust. No to caresses of chaos. Enough. I have enough! So do you. I'm so public, a carcass dragged just beyond the rumble strip and you need to stop swooping. Stop smelling. Stop touching. Stop tasting my rot. And listen. Because I don't want you to see me. I don't want to be real. It's too much. But without you, I'm enough. See? No. You can't. My body sags like a toasted marshmallow, bulging and raging inside. The thighs, pocked with stretched fat, wobble with every soundless step. The hips hide beneath mounds of wiggly skin and the breasts, oh, the breasts! They shiver like misshapen flan. Somewhere in this ugly, I am tucked away. Ambivalent. I want to shed. I want to thrive, but the ugly is hungry. Ravenous for my failure to tame it. The ugly is stronger than me and that's alright. They tell me to eat! They tell me to be happy! Choose. Please. My ugly makes you happy. My happiness, well, it makes you ugly. And you're too close, and you're too late, and you're confused. And we're both unhappy. I don't want you. I'm not ready.