As I write this letter, the strain of my owner's enormous, undulating belly threatens to rip out my exhausted seams. For the past two years, she has consistently brought her boundary breaking fat accumulation to new heights, and I can't take it anymore.

From the moment we first met in the Petite section of Dillard's, I was leery of becoming her jean. Sure, she had a nice posterior, and yes, I knew her thighs would not rub together, chafing holes into my beautiful blue fabric. What concerned me was the small beginning of a pot belly that I saw underneath her sweatshirt. The false sense of security she felt wearing the sweatshirt caused her to become lax in her sucking-in and her belly peeked through like the tip of an endless iceberg.

Against my better judgment, I stayed on my hanger while she brought me into the dressing room. By the time we entered the cramped, badly lit room, I had fallen for her. Maybe it was the way she carried me- her left hand through the hook of my hanger while her right forearm was underneath my thighs, cradling me like a groom as she delivered me over the threshold. Maybe it was the way she "oohed" and "awwed" at my supple denim and shiny buttons. Either way, I was smitten.

She slid me over her body carefully and respectfully. She removed her shoes and gently slid me up her calves, knees, and thighs. She buttoned me adeptly, as one who'd done it many times before, but never forgot how special each time was with a new partner. As she gazed at me in the mirror, and saw my stretched out waist band, she assuaged me with promises of weight loss, crash diets, and exercise. She romanced me with plans to take me to exotic lands. She intoxicated me with talk of amazing stiletto heels that would complement my boot cut.

It has been two years, and nothing has come of her lies. She didn't diet, she didn't exercise. The exotic lands amounted to nothing more than weekly trips to Target and The Grocery Store. Rather than stilettos, I am accompanied by neon green crocs. These things alone, I could stand. But the constant pull and loosening of my seams, the broken zippers and the struggling, sweaty encounters in the morning that leave both of us dizzy and suffocating are too much to bear, and I have decided to end my life.

By the time you read this, I will already have added the bleach to the next load that cleans me. Unfortunately, others will be hurt as well. Black Tee, Little Black Dress, Plaid Flannel Jammies, and Black Socks understand the sacrifice they must make, but will she? Before she throws their mottled shells out in the garbage, will she know why those innocent lives had to be sacrificed?

Learn more about this author, Yolander Prinzel.
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