A couple of days ago, my Creative Writing professor had assigned us to write a poem. Instead of actually trying to write something, I was sitting in the library tapping my pen on the table, impatiently waiting for an idea to strike me. It was the day of the class — actually an hour before the class, and I still hadn't written anything yet.

I was wearing a belt that day and any person who has ever worn a belt knows that when you sit down, somehow all of the skin on your stomach (what you might call flab) ends up on top of the belt. And so when you're sitting, even the skinniest people have some stomach rolls. So, I was sitting there feeling my stomach when an idea for a poem just struck me.

Here is a poem inspired by the rolls on my stomach, and the society we live in. And no I am not ashamed I have rolls on my stomach because they're completely natural. And no I shouldn't start going to the gym more. And to the person thinking, "Why would you even share this?" You have stomach rolls too, buddy.

Walking, Talking Food Coma

Stuff that omelet underneath your bra

And the cinnamon rolls under your belt.

Pull that belt up to cover the bread.

The bread you ate before that cake

Even though it was hours ago

And you haven’t eaten anything since.

And sit up straight!

Hide those rolls

on your belly!

The cottage cheese underneath your butt

And the bacon strips along your thighs?

Sigh.

But you are the moon.

You are the only one who looks in the mirror

And doesn’t see

a burger.

All those sweet potato fries,

and homemade pies,

and plant-based-diets

All they see is a food coma.