Man, that sepia filter really classes things up.

Ode to my tits

You were huge.

You grew and grew and grew, every year until my back was breaking and my neck sobbed with the strain, permanent dents in my shoulders from bras that struggled to hold you in.

You damn near smothered me.

I tried to support you — with heavy-duty, thickly-strapped, underwire armor that broke my bank account — but you didn’t want support. You wanted to swell, to outgrow the bras and outgrow me until people saw nothing but a pair of tits.

The amount of times I’ve had assholes try to motorboat me is insulting. The amount of times I’ve let them is a joke. That’s all I was, after all. A pair of tits.

That’s all I had to offer, anyway.

You know, now that I think back, the only time I ever felt you were properly supported was when I wore a corset, and it’s fucked up that I had to squeeze my lungs until I couldn’t breathe, crush my organs until I couldn’t shit. For you.

Hella fucked up, you feel me?

The first breast reduction, I asked my surgeon to take you away completely make me flat. He laughed it off, saying that if he did I would only regret it.

He didn’t know you like I did. He saw just tits, like everyone else. He couldn’t see that you were a weed, and the only way to get rid of you was to rip you out by the root. Anything less and you would fight your way back to the surface from the hell-pits where you belong.

And lo! A year after the surgery, there I was again: same damn hospital, same damn doctor, and two masses of hell-fat protruding from my chest, begging him again to please get rid of these fucking tits.

He takes me down to a C-cup.

Piece of shit.

It’s around this time that I develop an eating disorder in an effort to starve you out of my body — then I discover that you are the first place I gain weight and the last place I lose it. Some would love to have it this way, but all I see is that I would have to lose a dangerous amount of weight before you let me go, you goddamn Pitbull.

The second breast reduction rendered my nipples numb. I wasn’t sad, because it meant that maybe the rest of you would go numb with them, and I could forget you existed as long as I didn’t look in the mirror.

That was the last time I saw my reflection on purpose.

I cut you off six days ago. The bandages come off tomorrow — for now , I am a mummy from neck to navel.

Part of me is terrified that I’ll see you still there, still growing, not like a weed this time but a mold.

Tomorrow, I guess we’ll see.


You weren’t there anymore.

The bandages came off and there was nothing to greet me but a flat, bruised chest, a silvery line of surgical glue lining the incision that splits me in half.

It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen. My reflection and I have become reacquainted. I stand up straight, I square my shoulders. There is nothing weighing them down anymore.

I thought about saying a few words for you, to acknowledge your passing. If you had a tit-shaped tombstone, what the epitaph would be:

My Tits

2001–2017

I fucking WON.