Everywhere she walks chickens follow her, roasted, fried and baked. Her clouds are made up of mashed potatoes. It rains gravy. She calls her friend Macaroni when she is having a bad day and needs some relief; she makes love to chocolate cheesecake with cherries. She bathes in whipping cream and washes in caramel.
I watch her. She sits up high, on top of the sweet and sour pork she once consumed that is now stored in her rear. I watch her laugh; bouncing, her body waves like the ocean.
She has a strong personality. I hear her speak her mind and I see her take action. Other people cannot see her because she is surrounded by food and they cannot see past that. They cannot see past all of her exterior. Miles of flesh, skin and meat.
Her heart is pumping, trying to get the blood to travel through those miles; it is a rough road for them. They are tired. Each drop of blood has a sad face on it. There is little room to breathe; they are constricted and constrained. Eventually their home will be closed off.
She inhales beef and cheese enchiladas with rice and beans. Washing it down with a diet coke she is unaware that tonight her body will close for business and her soul will abandon ship before sunrise. Her eyes are blurred by maple syrup, her ears plugged with milk duds. All she can feel is the food.
