Can love really be a thing for me? (I'm 471lbs) gay version

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.