Your love is conditional.
It is measured by the size of my waistline; the length which you’d go for me only extends as far as the gap between my thighs.
It is dependent on the coif of my hair, how tight my clothes are – does it show off my décolletage?
It is ephemeral, temporary – lasting only as long as my makeup does.
It is built on a foundation easily shaken by cellulite, threatened by a number on the scale.
So shallow, it has the depth of a puddle.
It compares me to a girl that had just walked past, a slutty photo on your social feed. It wants me to be more like that female friend who eats only salads, refuses desserts and wipes grease off her fries.
Why promise: for better or for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health to love and to cherish from this day forward until death do us part,
when you can’t even love me when I am fat?
If you only care for breasts and thighs,
perhaps you should date a bucket of fried chicken.