My fat is just that. Mine all mine. Handfuls of it, a sunken treasure chest glittering on the ocean floor, whopping knuckledusters winking at sharks. My fat enters the room before I do, the throne heralding the Queen. No, not the Queen, the Queen's a lightweight. All hail the King! I am Hen-i-ree the Eighth, I am (my parents did want a boy). My fat is MC Hammer, a taunt, a rap. My fat's a wrapper, a corn-husked tamale-clenching fist of steamy dough. Side view, my fat's a baby bump, a balloon ready to pop, full term, waddle swaddle coddle cuddle. My fat's a high chair, I'm a wee bairn. My fat is the spoon, the breast, the womb. Food has two o's, two more mouths to feed. My fat is all that. Thinner's a winner, a sinner. Thin's Fat's twin. At the Silent Disco, Fat mimes 'How do you like it, how do you like it, more more more!'. Thin keeps schtum, Thin says less. Fatty spelled backwards is almost taffy. Saltwater taffy tears. My fat is sweet, moreish. More to love. More to leave. More to bury. My fat has a big mouth. Mouthy. Shut it. My fat's a gated community, a trailer park, a football stadium. My fat's the Encyclopedia Britannica, the Torah, the Koran. My fat is the last word.