They say love finds everyone.
They lie.
I’ve watched it pass me like a bus that never stops,
a cruel joke played on repeat.
Every time I think someone might see me—
really see me—
they don’t.
They see the weight.
They see a number.
They see what they’ve been taught to run from.
I’m 471 pounds of maybe,
maybe if I lose some,
maybe if I hide some,
maybe if I shrink myself smaller than my pain.
But I can’t.
And I won’t.
Because this body—
it’s the only one that’s ever stayed.
Still, god,
how I ache for someone to touch me
like I’m worth melting for.
To look at me like I’m more than a lesson in tolerance,
more than “you’re beautiful for your size.”
That phrase—it cuts like glass.
Every time someone says it,
they remind me that love has weight limits.
And I’m too heavy to board.
I tell myself self-love is enough.
But it’s a lie I feed myself
when the nights get cold
and my phone stays silent.
It fills the cracks but never the void.
Because self-love doesn’t hold you,
it doesn’t whisper your name
in the dark
and mean it.
I’ve been the joke,
the secret,
the curiosity.
I’ve been the “maybe when no one’s watching.”
I’ve been loved in silence
and forgotten in daylight.
And yet, I still hope.
I hate that I do.
Hope’s a cruel addiction.
It tastes like sugar but burns like whiskey going down.
I imagine his hands on my chest,
his breath soft,
his eyes unafraid—
but the dream fades faster than I can speak it.
Because I’ve seen what men choose.
And it’s never me.
It’s like I’m too much and not enough
at the same time.
Too big for comfort,
too lonely to breathe.
And I wonder—
if love is patient,
if love is kind,
then why does it keep walking past me,
like I’m invisible,
like I don’t bleed red too?
I’m tired.
Tired of pretending I don’t crave it.
Tired of saying “I’m fine”
when I’m breaking.
Tired of calling it strength
when it’s just survival.
Can love really be a thing for me?
Or is it just another fairytale
meant for smaller frames,
for bodies that don’t make the world stare?
I don’t know anymore.
But if love ever finds me,
it better come hungry—
because there’s a lot of me to love,
and I’m tired of being starved.
-
Author:
Aaron Roberson (
Offline) - Published: January 18th, 2026 00:08
- Category: Love
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: Friendship
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Comments2
This seems a poem reworked from yesterday it speaks of having to accept one's weight as is and that others won't. It speaks of a desire for passion that never finds its way. A sad poem of desire never found. Well written
Your poem resonated deeply with me, touching a chord in my heart. I vividly feel and see the pain you've conveyed. Though I don't share your exact experiences, I understand the emotional weight. The harsh words of others can leave lasting impressions, far more profound than their fleeting glances. You're right; people's words can be cruelly thoughtless, often overlooking the beauty of our true selves. I've walked a similar path, particularly with someone I considered a lifelong friend, who publicly shamed me. Their hurtful actions, compounded by the opinions of others, have lingered. Who gave me the power to let their words define my self-worth? For over 20 years, I've grappled with the weight of low self-esteem. It's a burden that's hard to shake once it takes hold. Rather than investing in external remedies, I urge you to tap into your inner resilience. Rediscover the joy that once brought you happiness. Take small steps daily towards healing and self-love. Ignore the naysayers and focus on your growth. When you find happiness within, it will surround you. Self-love is the key to attracting love and positivity. Never surrender your power to others. I commend your bravery in sharing your story; you're a beacon of strength. Don't be ashamed – you have every right to speak out. Trust yourself and your inner voice, for it's the wisest guide.
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