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My Baby’s Dad Hates My Mom Bod.



L. Leeper . 2 min read

Its been quite some time since he’s seen the body he created. For the last decade my God of a man has been busy dancing in new gardens, blessing new fields while leaving me to maintain my own. But when he spun the block I couldn’t resist the opportunity to be embraced by the familiar.

Here we are touching again and I can’t stop wishing my breasts didn’t sag the way they do. I wasn’t new to this sort of wish, but his gaze added weight to the hanging making my hopes feel more urgent. My breasts were too tiny to be so empty. Folks expected a bit of hang from big titties but no one expected much from little ones. The skin was stretched beyond its capacity, all it could do was bend to the will of time. The time that had been sped up by my greedy little boy who mirrored his fathers ways. They both like to eat at me. Eat at me. Eat at me. They both were good at getting underneath my skin for their own sustenance. I was either being pulled or plunged. Now here I was empty, begging my baby’s daddy to fill me up. To look at me like he did before I had let him become my God, my man, my lover, my gardener, my baby’s damn daddy.

The asking wasn’t too much, it was the enthusiasm that was. He couldn’t hide the absent glint in his eye when my shirt rolled over my shoulders, over my elbows, revealing a flat but stretched stomach, torn. Was it too much to demand glee? Why isn’t he bowing to the ways that brought him here? Was it the way my nipple folded over the areola? I didn’t run to push them up as I normally would. I let them remain bowed to their God. He wrapped his lips around them with downward cast eyes and took me in as the obligation I was.

If God wasn’t going to love me, who would?

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