He presses his lips against mine until I melt away, becoming smaller. It's nice. The feeling of being wanted, desired, maybe even treasured, important- but the thoughts keep coming. The thought of who else has he kissed like this? Am the first, the last, the hundredth? The emptiness in the pit of my stomach that tells me that I'm nothing, mixed with the desperate longing to belong.

His hand traces my thigh, riding up to my waist. His hand presses against my fat. I resist the urge to twist, to recoil, to hide away. The feeling of repulsion that surrounds me, pervades through me, the feeling that I'm unworthy, fat, ugly. The shame of being in my own skin.

I kiss him back suddenly, fighting the urge to pull away, to apologise... But the thoughts keep coming. They dart through me, screaming and laughing and watching, as I crumble and melt in desire and pain and shame and self loathing- all intermingled into one fiery ball inside me.

"Sorry," I mutter pulling away and moving his hand. His eyes stare back at me, open and wide, his pupils dilated, the desire is palpable. And yet I wiggle away and shrink so I'm smaller, out of reach, out of touch, I pull at my top and cover my exposed hips, the curves of my waist.

He pulls me back in, his strong arms wrapping around me, and I feel myself smile slightly as I breathe him in. The heady intoxicating smell of lust and sweat and aftershave. He lifts my chin and kisses my dry, chapped lips. I must feel rough like sandpaper, cutting.

I think of his ex girlfriend. Younger, thinner, blonder, prettier. Her blue wide eyes and small upturned nose. Her pert breasts and exposed ribs. His hand caresses my arms so I can feel my fat wobbling and I shudder and pull away. He exhales and rolls away, a small smile on his face.

"Sorry," I say again. Pausing for a moment. I pull him back towards me and kiss and kiss and kiss. Hiding my shame for a moment, pulling a cloak over my self loathing, my vulnerability, my inability to speak and voice the fact that is so apparent it may as well be sitting in the corner of the room and commenting.

He pulls at my top, raising it up. And I can't bear it anymore. I can't be seen, can't be heard, can't reveal that part of me.

"Sorry."

The word that says it all. The word that encompasses the fear and doubt and pain that lies within me. I am branded by my sorry. I am trapped by my sorry.