Who Am I Without My Weight?

No longer a slave to a niche,
The easily-understood cliche
Of the jolly fat man whose laughter
Masks the pain eating him from the 
Inside-out, Chris Farley waits in the wings
His cocaine-caked nostrils flare with the 
Delight of some company in the cookie-cutter
Coffin constructed for comedians whose eyes
Glaze at the thought of boredom and withdrawal

So I eat, I drink, I sit, I sleep, I wait
Because at least I can look myself in
The eye and say that I am the latest
In a line of less-than people who looked
Up at the ceiling of restraint as it moved towards
Their skulls and said fuck it

Now, I am the jolly fat man who every day
Has to see himself in the mirror, the hate steaming
Along its edges, an unrepentant gut hanging over an 
Elastic waistband praying for release from its agony
As I stare down, all memory of my toes lost, I know
That at least I fit into the shape of the world
That my figure-8 form is an impression that people
Before me have fallen into and will fall into when I am gone